


12 Days of Christmas

by MorgannaGrim



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-08-28 14:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 28,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16725438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorgannaGrim/pseuds/MorgannaGrim
Summary: It's a little under two weeks to Christmas when Armie begins receiving gifts from a secret admirer.





	1. Prologue

Snow lay heavy along the streets of New York, the whitest christmas the empire state has seen in over twelve years. Between the incessant footfall of daily commuters and the harsh winds blustering down 9th Avenue, Armie is surprised the snow has had the chance to settle at all. He pulls his coat tighter around his chest and mentally berates himself for having left his scarf on the subway last week. “Idiot.” he grumbles into the snug collar of his jacket, because he truly is; he is a stone-cold moron.

It was pure fact that had Armie not been stupid enough to attempt crossing state lines with a glove box full of weed, he wouldn't even be making this vile journey across town. He's cold, tired and quite frankly, pissed off.

 _'What a way to spend a Saturday.'_ Armie thinks as he comes to a halt outside a glass door, foggy with condensation. The muffled clattering of pots and pans can be heard coming from inside and Armie has to take a second, just a brief moment and a steady breath to remind himself _'It's only eight weeks.'_ That's what the judge had given him; a verbal warning and eight weeks community service, a slap on the wrist by anyone's standards and it's not really that Armie is looking to blame anybody else for his mistakes but technically, it wasn't even his weed; it was Nick's. They had both been in that car and they had both been high. Yet here he was, boot-clad feet planted firmly against the snowy side-walk of Hell's kitchen as he peered in through the foggy door of Holy Apostle's soup kitchen... and where was Nick? Probably warm at home with Friday night's conquest still drooling into his pillow. “Lucky bastard.” Armie grunts, finally pushing open the door and stepping inside.

The first thing Armie notices about Holy Apostle's is the smell. Sure, it's a soup kitchen and the aroma of food was always going to be a given but it surprises Armie just how _good_ it smells. Having never set foot in a soup kitchen in his life, Armie had expected the place to smell almost _damp_ for lack of a better word; almost like a thrift store or an old used book shop with the overpowering scent of mothballs and ageing parchment. He had even half expected the smell of piss to hit him as he walked through the door; _'these people **are** homeless, right?'_ He wonders.

Speaking of the people, there are more of them than Armie had anticipated. At least forty men and women are dotted around the room, some standing in line waiting to be served while others have taken a spot at one of the many tables set up throughout the room. The chatter amongst them is loud and Armie is almost overwhelmed by how wrong he had been in his assumptions.

It's not until a young lady in a white apron approaches that he finally pulls himself from his thoughts and realises he had been stood in the entry way, surveying the room for far longer than would appear normal to an onlooker. “Hi, there.” she greets him with a small wave and a smile that to Armie's surprise, appears genuine and welcoming. She's Irish, Armie notes. Irish, blonde and still waiting for him to say something. “Are you okay?” She inquires, brow arched in concern. “Do you need to come in and-”

“No.” Armie interrupts. God, he feels like a dick already. “No, I'm not here for food. I'm uh, I'm here to volunteer.”

“Oh. Oh, I see. Well, that's very kind of you but I don't think we're actually taking anymore volunteers at the moment. We fill up pretty fast over the Christmas period. All these bloody do-gooders!” she jokes, laughing and giving Armie a playful shove; ' _bold move'._ Armie groans inwardly; he's really going to have to fucking spell it out for her.

“It's court ordered.” It comes out faster and sharper than Armie intends. He sees the blush creep across the woman's cheeks as the situation at hand finally dawns on her.

“Oh. _Oh!_ ”

“Yeah.” Armie shuffles on the spot, clearly uncomfortable.

“Well, in that case you'd better follow me. I'm Saoirse.” she extends her hand and for the first time that morning, Armie's reaction isn't awkward or delayed.

“Armie.”

He shakes her hand and follows along behind her quietly as she gives him a brief rundown of the place. “So, this is where everybody eats, tables are wiped down and reset after every meal. Over there is where we take food donations.” she points toward the back corner of the room and Armie can see three large plastic containers already stacked with canned goods and bags of non-perishables. “Usually we alternate between who gets the job of carrying it all into the back and sorting through it. It's one of the more tedious jobs but-”

“Has to be done.” Armie chimes in with a nod.

Saoirse smiles at him over her shoulder “Exactly.”

“And over here...” she begins, extending her arm in one, long dramatic sweeping motion “is where we set up and serve every day.”

Three stainless steel hot-trolleys line the left side of the room, each one laid out with food in a way that immediately reminds Armie of his high school cafeteria.  
“You even get your very own hair-net.” Saoirse teases. Armie smiles a little and lets out a shallow, mocking breath.

“Yeah, sure.” he laughs.

“I'm serious.” She's deadpan now, no humour in her eyes as she reaches across the counter and pulls a hideous, blue string hairnet from a box. “Even tiny Tim _should_ be wearing one.” she says, gesturing toward a young man who up until hearing the mention of his name, had had his back to them; hunched over a large metal basin, huffing long, unruly dark curls out of his eyes as he peels potatoes. “Isn't that right, Pony?”

It's only when the other man has downed tools, wiped his hands and is stalking toward them that Armie realises that tiny Tim isn't so tiny. He can't be much shorter than Armie and _fuck_ , the boy has cheekbones that could cut glass. His frame is slight and the white apron tied neatly around his middle only serves to accentuate his narrow waist.  
 _'Don't stare, don't stare, don't stare, don't s-'_

“Hey. I'm Timmy.” He says, wiping his hand once more down the front of his apron and extends it in greeting. Armie is thankful for the young blonde to his right as he struggles to form any kind of coherent sentence and she jumps to his aid in record time.

“This is Armie. He's with us for the next... uh...” she falters “how long are you with us, Armie?” Saoirse asks, suddenly realising she knows very little about her new colleague. The question jumpstarts Armie's mental capabilities once again and he finds himself suddenly shaking Timmy's hand.

“Eight weeks. That's all. I'll uh, try not to get under anybody's feet.” Armie mumbles, releasing the other man's hand and promptly wiping his own down the back of his jeans. _'God, when did his palms start sweating?'_

“Oh, don't be daft!” Saoirse scalds him in jest. “Timmy here will look after you and show you the ropes. Wont you, Tim?” she grins, slapping Timmy on the back and tossing the long forgotten hairnet at Armie before abandoning them in favour of collecting empty trays and wiping down tables.

“So, uh... you could chop while I peel, if you wanted to?” Timmy says, rubbing the back of his neck. The kid seems almost nervous, as though he's more out of place here than Armie.

“Sure. Lead the way.” Armie smiles. Timmy suddenly steps toward him and he's entirely too close, taking up almost all of Armie's personal space. Tim reaches out and plucks the hairnet from Armie's grip. He leans up and stretches the material over Armie's head before stepping back to admire his handy work. Timmy's smirking up at him, smug and more than a little amused.

 _'Not so nervous after all'_ Armie thinks as he rolls his eyes and shoves Tim playfully toward the basin he had been standing at earlier. “Yeah, yeah. You look like a lunch lady too, you know.” Armie says, feigning annoyance.

 

It's well into the afternoon when Armie hears his stomach growl... no, roar and he sees Timmy look up from organising the cutlery into the correct trays. “Hungry?” Timmy asks, dropping the last spoon into it's slot.

“What gave me away?” Armie rests a hand against his stomach and rubs. He had skipped breakfast this morning. Call it nerves, call it disinterest, or maybe he was just too pissed off to eat when he had woken up; knowing where he was about to spend his day and the weather he had to brave to get there, Armie's appetite just hadn't been up to much.

“Let's grab lunch.” Timmy says and Armie stands, pulls off his ridiculous hairnet and is ready to go and grab his coat when he notices Timmy is ladling mashed potato onto two clean plates.

“Wait. _Here?_ ” Armie says, his words thick with disbelief.

Timmy rolls his eyes “Don't sound so horrified. This stuff is all clean, you know. Washed it myself.” he says, helping himself to gravy. Armie senses he's offended Timmy somehow and desperately scrambles to fix the situation before it escalates.

“No. No, I ju-”

“Besides” Timmy cuts in “You cant catch homelessness.” He shoves a full plate into Armie's hands a little too abruptly and fixes him with a pointed look. “Come on.”

Armie waits until they're both seated before he clears his throat and knocks Timmy's foot with his own under the table. “Hey. So, um... I didn't really mean anything by what I said. I'm sorry if I offended you, I just-”

“No. No, no. You didn't. I'm sorry. I guess I'm just a little defensive with stuff. I've volunteered here a long time and when you really get to know this place, these people... they're like family. I'm sure that sounds weird or whatever but it's true. It's hard not to take the judgement personally.” Timmy sighs and pushes the last of his food around his plate, appetite lost.

“I wasn't judging, I swear.” Armie raises both hands, a simple gesture to show he meant no ill-will. “I've just never been to a place like this.”

“ _Like this?_ ” Timmy repeats, eyeing him skeptically.

“Warm.” Armie quickly responds, not wanting to give Timmy the opportunity to take offence before he's fully explained himself. “Charitable, accepting. I'm not saying I didn't have my preconceptions before I stepped through that door but this is only day one and I can already see I was wrong. I really am sorry. Please, please can we start over?” Armie doesn't really know why he's so eager for Timmy's approval. He's never needed the validation of others in the past but when he realised he had maybe, possibly, kind of offended Timmy his heart had sunk and he had felt his stomach twist itself into one, big knot of anxiety; he didn't like that feeling one bit.

Timmy appears pensive for a minute, he's eerily quiet as his eyes scan Armie's face for any kind of sincerity. His mouth twists into a thoughtful kind of pout before he slaps a decisive hand against the table. Armie jumps and Timmy smiles, extending his hand to Armie for the second time that day. “Alright. Friends!” he beams and Armie lets out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding; It's a sigh of relief as his stomach unknots and his heart climbs from the depths of his stomach and returns to it's proper place inside his chest.

“Friends.” Armie reiterates, taking Timmy's hand in his own and shaking it for just a little longer than may have been necessary. Timmy is the first to let go, stealing his hand away to push his hair from his eyes and gather their empty plates.

“Come on. You can do the dishes, that way you know they're _extra_ clean.” Timmy teases.

“Don't be an ass.” Armie smiles but Timmy's laughing as he says it and Armie could be wrong but he's fairly certain that the next eight weeks aren't going to be so bad after all.


	2. On the first day of Christmas...

_On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me..._

 

Armie practically falls through the door of Holy Apostle's with his coat wound tightly around himself, teeth chattering and fingers frozen. ' _Yep, definitely frostbite'_ he thinks as he cups his hands and blows hot air into them. Saoirse waves from behind the hot-trolley and Armie decides that even if he could thaw his hands well enough to wave back, he probably wouldn't. He's in a particularly foul mood this morning, matched only by the grim weather outside.

“Still snowing?” Saoirse asks as he hangs up his coat and slips on an apron, joining her at the serving station.

“No, my teeth always chatter like this.” Armie drawls, his words dripping with sarcasm. Saoirse just snorts and rolls her eyes.

“Hairnet.” she prompts, handing over the offensive garment. Armie snatches it from her and grumbles something incoherent as he slips it on and grabs a serving spoon.

“No Timmy?” Armie asks. He's trying to sound casual in his enquiry but the knowing look Saoirse gives him in return tells Armie that subtlety is not his strong point.

“He's in the back organising food donations.”

“Oh.” Armie wants to leave it at that, wants to feign disinterest and pretend he doesn't have a thousand and one more questions about the wiry young man currently hiding in the back room; probably with his stupid skinny jeans tucked into his stupid socks and his stupid hair falling into his stupid eyes and _god, those eyes._

“He uh, he volunteers here a lot, huh?” Armie finds himself asking.

Saoirse nods as she dishes meatloaf onto a plate and hands it across the counter to an older gentleman with a large, greying beard and a teardrop tattoo under his left eye. “Enjoy, Mac.” she beams before giving Armie's question her undivided attention. “Timmy's volunteered here longer than I have and I've been here...” she scrunches her face in concentration as though trying to calculate exactly how long it had been since she began volunteering at Holy Apostle's. “...three years now? Yeah, three years.”

“Wait. How old is he?” Armie asks. He had assumed Timmy would be no older than nineteen. His lithe physique and playful demeanour having apparently fooled Armie completely.

“He'll be twenty three later this month.”

“Huh. I thought he was younger.” Armie admits. 

“Everybody does.” Saoirse snorts a laugh. Everybody mistook Timmy for much younger than he was. The boy had an eternal youth vibe that Saoirse had always envied. _'It's your positivity'_ she'd told him one day _'That's what's keeping you young. You're too happy.'_ Timmy had just shook his head and laughed at her. _'See.'_

“So, why does he do it? Volunteer so much?”

Saoirse is outwardly laughing now, shaking her head in disbelief. She's onto him. She's _definitely_ on to him. “I don't know.” she shrugs “I'm not his biographer, Armie. Ask him yourself.” It's then that the door to the back room swings open and he hears that voice, loud and excitable from over his shoulder

“Yo! Lunch lady Armie. Looking good.” Timmy says, clapping him on the back. “What's up, man?”

“Oh, nothing. Just slowly dying of hypothermia.” Armie jokes. He flexes his fingers, testing the joints that had felt frozen and seized when he'd first arrived.

“You should wrap up warmer. Weather's going to get worse apparently.” Timmy says.

“I left my scarf on the subway last week. Haven't had the time to buy a new one.”

“Excuses, excuses.” Timmy tuts and grabs a cloth, busying himself with wiping down tables.

 

The rest of Armie's morning hurries by in a flurry of menial cleaning tasks, light banter with Saoirse and some food prep for the following day. Armie is so entirely absorbed and focussed on each task that he doesn't even notice as Timmy locates Armie's jacket and dips a stealthy hand into each pocket until he locates a brown leather wallet. Timmy is quick and subtle in his endeavour as he flicks open the wallet and snaps a photo of Armie's ID. ' _Douglas'_ Timmy notes with a smirk. ' _In fact, forget Douglas._ _ **Armand!'**_

“Adorable.” Tim mutters to himself as he slips Armie's wallet back into the coat and grabs his own jacket and scarf. “Alright, guys. That's me, I'm done; I'll see you tomorrow.” Timmy announces as he shoves his hands deep into his pockets and heads for the door.

“You're leaving already?” Armie asks and he knows, he just fucking _knows_ how disappointed he sounds. ' _Get your shit together, Hammer.'_

Tim stops in his tracks, smiles and shrugs “Little under two weeks to Christmas and I still have gifts to buy.”

“Very organised.”

“Let me guess...” Timmy's grinning now, leaning across the counter toward Armie, chin resting against balled up fists. “You do all your shopping the day before?”

“Who doesn't?”

“Normal people, Armie.” Timmy laughs.

“ _Boring_ people, you mean. Boring, predictable, ordinary people...” Armie realises his words could appear obnoxious and rude but everything he's said has been in jest and for what it's worth, Timmy is still grinning at him like an idiot, leaning across the counter as though he might climb it any second.

Timmy gives a thoughtful “Hm.” as though inclined to agree with Armie's sentiment.

“And who wants boring and predictable?” Armie teases. ' _Are we flirting? Is this... am I flirting? What's going on right now? God, just don't make a fool of yourse-'_

“Not me.” Timmy winks and pushes off of the counter. It feels as though the interaction is over before it even begun and Armie is left dumfounded; standing there behind the counter as Timmy breezes out of the door and out into that fucking blizzard.

 

It's almost dark by the time Armie leaves Holy Apostle's, hunched inward on himself in a last ditch effort to keep out the cold. He hasn't stopped thinking about his encounter with Timmy all afternoon. The flirtatious back-and-forth had left Armie both excited and entirely on edge. _'Don't read too much into it'_ he had told himself. _'He's probably like that with everyone. Outgoing, intrepid, coy. He's just having fun.'_ Armie shakes his head and sighs; he can see his breath and it only serves to remind him just how fucking cold it is. He stuffs his hands into his pockets to keep them warm; the same way he'd watched Timmy do earlier in the day, right before walking out of the door; completely unfazed and nonchalant about their entire exchange.

“That's weird.” Armie mutters to himself when he feels his wallet tucked inside his left pocket. He never keeps his wallet in there. Wallet and phone on the right, keys on the left so as not to scratch the leather of his wallet or his phone screen. ' _Such a fucking nerd.'_ He inwardly laughs at himself. He pulls the wallet out and checks it over briefly; nothing appears to be missing and so without much of a second thought he stuffs it into the correct pocket. _'who the fuck has a_ _ **correct**_ _pocket?'_

The subway is busy and crowded, noisy as ever and there's nowhere to sit but at least it's warm. Armie stands by the doors and busies himself with checking his work email. After his recent brush with the law, Armie's boss had decided that it would be best if Armie took a “Temporary leave of absence.” They could dress it up however they liked but Armie knew what they were really saying; _Suspended!_ In less than a week, Armie had gone from 'Mr Hammer, popular first grade teacher.' to 'Lunch lady Armie, disgraced pot-head.'

As the train clatters to a halt, he disembarks and makes his way up and out onto the frosty Harlem streets. It's dark now and the flurry of snow is much lighter than it had been earlier in the day. He wonders how Timmy's shopping expedition had gone, had he managed to buy everything he needed? How many people did he have to buy for? Were he and his family close? Did he have a family? Were they in the city too or was it just Timmy? It dawns on Armie how little he knows of his new found friend and just how much he hungered to learn; Armie wanted to know everything.

Jogging up the front steps of his apartment he pauses in the lobby to check the mail. _'Junk, junk, junk, junk, christmas card, junk.'_ With a roll of his eyes he continues up the stairs of his building, rounding the corner on the fourth floor and coming to a stop outside his door. Armie's brow creases in confusion as he stares down at the mat outside of his apartment where a small package lay. Wrapped neatly in brown paper and tied with delicate, white string. He bends to pick it up and notes the way the paper crumples under his hold. Whatever is inside is soft. _'Not another ugly christmas sweater!'_ he thinks to himself. His mother had a habit of sending him the most unattractive knitwear for Christmas but no, Armie realises; because there's a tag hanging from the parcel and when he flips it to read the message he's so surprised, so taken aback that had the message not addressed him directly he would have believed the gift was for somebody else entirely.

' _Armie,_

_On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me...'_

Armie is barely through his front door, jacket hanging from one arm as he rips into the parcel with intense curiosity. paper falls to his feet as he pulls out a scarf; soft, warm and wooly. It's varying shades of grey with tightly woven light against dark stripes. Armie wraps it around his neck, taking it for a test run of sorts and immediately falls in love with his new scarf. He lets out a soft hum of approval and picks up the wrapping he had been so eager to discard during his earlier excitement.

He doesn't recognise the handwriting on the tag and as for the message; well, that was something else entirely. _'True love?'_ who the fuck could that be? His ex? His mother? Luca, his sweet but very eccentric landlord? Maybe Nick, playing a cruel joke? No, Armie knows Nick better than that and there was no way he'd haul ass across town just to leave a scarf on Armie's doorstep... but then who?

These thoughts plague him as he flops down onto his ratty, old couch; scarf still thrown casually around his neck. He allows his heavy lids to fall shut. _'Just resting my eyes.'_ He thinks but Armie knows he has no intention of moving from that spot for the rest of the evening. He doesn't have the energy, nor the desire to crawl into a cold, empty bed tonight and so he stays put on the couch, wrapped up warm for the first time that week.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to start by saying just how overwhelmed I am by the response the prologue to this fic received and I'm so excited to finally begin posting the daily updates. I'd like to say thank you to every single one of you who were kind enough to leave a comment or a kudos or subscribe; I'm truly touched. I really hope you all enjoyed the first official chapter.
> 
> I plan to update every day and post the final chapter on Christmas eve and then an epilogue on either Christmas day or the day after Christmas depending on which day I find the most time. Again, I really hope you enjoyed the first official chapter and Merry Christmas, guys!


	3. On the second day of Christmas...

_On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me..._

 

Sunlight filters in through Armie's living room window, casting a pale glow across his sleeping form. With a moan and a stretch he opens one eye and takes in his surroundings. O _h,_ that's right; He had slept on the couch. As he pushes himself up into a seated position and checks his phone for the time, he can already feel the pull in his neck and the knots in his back. He should _really_ buy a new couch. “Fuuuck!” Armie groans; he's running late and he knows, he just fucking _knows_ he's going to freeze his ass off all the way from Harlem to Hell's Kitchen.

Suddenly, Armie remembers the scarf from the night before and his anonymous admirer. He brings a hand up to where the warm, wooly fabric is still wrapped loosely around his neck and smiles. This morning though, he doesn't even have time to shower, let alone further speculate on who his admirer could be. He heaves himself up from the couch in search of fresh clothes and coffee before braving the arctic conditions of New York city.

Armie has to admit, as he steps out of the subway on 8th Avenue that with his new thick, tight-knit scarf wrapped around his neck and his coat pulled tight, the weather really isn't as bad as he'd expected it to be. He's warmer today, he's happy, he's a little more at ease with his current destination and his mood only improves when he walks through the door of Holy Apostle's to find Timmy serving up breakfast at the hot-trolley and singing along to Christmas carols. _'Of course he can sing too. Fucker!'_

Timmy spots him immediately and waves him over, his smile is mega-watt and Armie can't help but reciprocate. “Someone's in a good mood.” Armie says as he slips on his apron. She's not there but he can hear Saoirse's voice chiding in his head _'Hairnet, Hammer!'_ and so he throws one of those on too for good measure.

“It's Christmas.” Timmy shrugs “It's hard not to be.” and Armie thinks that might be the most adorable thing he's heard in a while.

“Big fan of the holidays then?” Armie asks.

“Well, I mean why not? The rest of the year is always so discouraging, you know? So much sad shit happens; like I can't even bring myself to watch the news anymore so...”

“So, why not enjoy the one season of the year that dedicates itself to kindness and forgiveness and-”

“Exactly. Good will to all men or whatever.” Timmy grins and spoons a heap of scrambled eggs onto a plate before handing it back across the counter.

“So, what do you usually do for the holidays? Family? Friends?” Armie knows he's prying and it's really none of his business but he just can't help himself. He's infatuated and he wants to hear everything and anything Timmy is willing to share. It's only when Timmy is slow in his reply that Armie worries he may have overstepped a mark but then Tim sighs and he sounds so forlorn that Armie almost wishes he hadn't asked. “I'm sorry. You don't have to- I mean, I just... forget I asked.” Armie is scrambling, tripping over his words in panic.

“No, it's fine.” Timmy says “It's just that this year's going to be a little strange for me. My family are spending Christmas in Paris; my Sister just had a baby and she lives out there so... yeah. Paris.”

“Oh. You're not going?”

Timmy shakes his head. “Nah. I have this thing on Christmas Eve that I can't really get out of and I'd hate to abandon Saoirse and this place at Christmas. This is our busiest time of year, you know? All hands on deck.”

“You volunteer here a lot then?” Armie asks. He thinks back to his conversation with Saoirse when he had asked her Why Timmy spent so much time at Holy Apostle's. _'I'm not his biographer.'_ she'd laughed and Armie had inwardly cringed. _'Way to sound like a fucking stalker.'_ He thought.

“I guess.”

 “Why?” Armie prompts. He had expected Timmy to give him a little more than a mumbled ' _I guess.'_

 “Why not.” Timmy shrugs; he does that a lot, Armie thinks. Maybe that's what gave him his “eternal youth” as Saoirse had put it; all of his non committal gestures, his reluctance to engage in any real, in depth conversation; ' _forever fifteen.'_

“Are you always this cryptic?”

“Are you always this nosey?” Timmy retorts but he's smiling right at him; it's all teeth and dimples and those fucking cheekbones. Armie can't look away and before he knows it he's laughing, uncontrollable and loud with a grin that makes his jaw ache.

“Alright, alright.” Armie says. “I can take a hint. I wont push it.” but Timmy just side glances him with a smirk and spoons another helping of scrambled eggs onto someone's plate.

 

The rest of their day passes by in a frenzy of playful derision and mockery, throwing lighthearted insults back-and-forth all while keeping the masses entertained with their less than impressive rendition of jingle bells. It's a little after 7pm when they're shrugging on their coats and locking the doors behind them.

Timmy whistles, as though impressed by what he sees and reaches out to feel the fabric of Armie's new scarf, already wound snug around the taller man's neck. “Nice scarf.” he comments, admiring the quality.

“Thanks. I like it too.” Armie smiles and suddenly finds himself snuggling further into the fabric. “I'm headed up town. Are you going that way or-?”

“Umm... yeah.” Timmy replies, he sounds unsure at first but then quickly covers any indication of self-doubt with a confident smile. “Yeah, sure. I'm up town too...Yeah.” he locks the door behind him and shoves his hands deep into his pockets before knocking Armie's elbow with his own. “Let's go.” Timmy prompts.

They walk in comfortable silence for a while, Timmy taking in the christmas lights, all lit up and sparkling along 9th Avenue; it takes him back to being a child when his Mother would bundle both he and his sister up in their warmest attire and take them out to see the lights. The Rockefeller Christmas tree had always been Timmy's favourite, he just had this _thing_ about Christmas trees. _'It's just not Christmas without a tree'_ he would reminds his mother every year when she'd declare “No tree next year. These pine needles are a pain in my ass. Literally!” Timmy smiles fondly to himself, childhood memories still so fresh in his mind.

“So, you live up town?” Armie asks, pulling Timmy from his thoughts.

“What? Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I live up town.”

“Mind if I ask where or is _that_ too nosey as well?” He teases and Timmy rolls his eyes and gives him a playful shove.

“Yorkville.” Timmy mumbles; it's the first place that comes to mind.

“Damn, Timmy. That's gotta be expensive.” Armie sounds disbelieving and Timmy just shrugs. ' _Non committal'_ Armie thinks again as they descend the steps down into the subway.

The clatter of the train makes it difficult to speak but Timmy tries anyway. They're standing close, arms extended while white knuckles grip the overhead handrail to avoid being thrown across the carriage and he's asking Armie about his his life, his family, his job. Armie skirts around the latter, avoiding talk of work as much as possible; it's still a sore spot for Armie and the last thing he wants to do is give the impression that he's some feckless moron with a career-debilitating pot problem but he knows Timmy will ask eventually. He knows Tim has seen him hand over his time sheet every day, begging for a supervisors signature as proof of completion for his community service order. Armie cringes and hopes Timmy doesn't notice.

“So you just spend Christmas alone?” Timmy asks, pure disbelief and anguish written across his face. He sounds so fucking sad for Armie that he can barely stand it.

“It's fine. Really!” Armie replies. “I spend Thanksgiving with my family and that's all the interaction I can stand for one year, believe me.”

“But it's _Christmas_...” Timmy reiterates.

“I'm aware, Timmy.” He laughs as the train screeches to a halt at 86th street station. “Hey, isn't this your stop?”

There's a split second where Timmy looks confused, glancing around before realisation hits and he jumps into action. “Oh! Yeah. Yeah, this is it. Yorkville, that's me. See you tomorrow?” he rushes, grabbing his backpack from beside his feet.

“Tomorrow's my day off.” Armie yells as Timmy practically throws himself through the train doors and onto the platform just in time. Before either of them have a chance to say anything else the doors are closing and the train is leaping back into action, hurling itself forward into darkness again.

By the time Armie arrives at the front steps of his apartment building he realises his entire walk has been filled with thoughts of Timmy and their afternoon of lively ribbing. He had learnt a little more about the boy in question but that's all it was; _a little_. Armie had realised fairly quickly that Timmy was reluctant to discuss his personal life and given Armie's circumstance, he didn't really have much room to criticise. _'Yorkville though.'_ Armie thinks as he grabs today's bundle of junk mail from his postbox and ascends the stairs up toward his apartment.

It's as Armie rounds the 4th floor corner that he sees it; another package. Same brown paper, same white string, same little tag with the same unrecognisable hand writing scrawled across it. Today's package is smaller and whatever is inside is clad inside a slim, rectangular box. Armie flips the tag and reads.

 

_'Armie_

_On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me...'_

 

Tonight, Armie doesn't even wait to get inside before he's ripping open the small package and slipping the lid off of the box. “Gloves.” Armie grins. “Two of 'em.” _'Obviously. You kind of need one for each hand, moron.'_ He berates himself as he unlocks the door to his apartment and steps inside. Shucking off his jacket and scarf he slips a hand into one of his new gloves and admires them; whoever his secret admirer is, they have excellent taste. The gloves are a soft, black leather. They're wool-lined on the inside and Armie is in heaven.

He doesn't really remember having mentioned to _anyone_ that he needed gloves but he's grateful for the gesture, happy that he'll no longer have to walk to and from the subway with his hands stuffed in his pockets. He lays both gloves down on his kitchen counter and locates his phone, still nestled securely in his coat pocket. He snaps a quick photo of the gift tag and sends it to Nick, he's not entirely sure whether he's trying to call Nick out or ask for his help identifying the hand writing. Maybe both?

When Nick doesn't respond within his usual 5 minute time frame Armie assumes he's busy and throws himself down onto the couch. He turns on the tv and flicks aimlessly through channels, not really paying much attention. His mind should have been on work, on getting his fucking job back but all he could think about was his mysterious gift-giver with their amazing taste in winter wear and their scrawly hand writing.

_'Well...'_ Armie thinks _'at least I'm getting something for Christmas this year.'_

 


	4. On the third day of Christmas...

_On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me..._

 

When Armie wakes on the morning of his first official day off from Holy Apostle's, he fully intends to spend the day warm at home; there's a blanket and a series on Netflix calling his name but as he lay there in bed, staring up at the ceiling and mulling over the weeks events he can't help but let his mind drift to what Timmy had said about embracing the festive season. Timmy had been right, of course; the rest of the year could be so dull and melancholic that it really would be a shame to waste the hand full of weeks where the world deemed it socially acceptable to don ridiculous sweaters, decorate your home within an inch of it's life and gorge yourself on food until you were fit to burst just because it was fun; it made people happy and god knows, the world needed more of that. So, with Timmy's words sounding in his head Armie finds himself heading for the shower.

He showers, brushes his teeth and dresses in record time before bundling up in his new scarf and gloves. He heads across the street to grab coffee and a bear claw and while waiting in line, uses the time to pull up train schedules.

 

**[Harlem, NY] 10:47am < 58 minutes > 11:45am [Tarrytown, NY]**

 

Armie grabs his order and makes the short walk over to 125th street station where he intends to take the train upstate to Tarrytown; a quiet, sleepy little suburban haven overlooking the Hudson river. Armie smiles fondly, recalling memories of the quaint little town where his grandparents had resided during his childhood. It was always beautiful during the Autumn and Winter months and has the most unconventional little stores; that was why Armie had made the decision to start his christmas shopping in Tarrytown. Granted, he had barely anybody to buy gifts for this year but in the spirit of Christmas and in an attempt to mirror Timmy's _'Fuck the Grinch'_ attitude, Armie is determined to make the best of a bad year.

The train ride along the Hudson is uneventful and allows for Armie to type up a gift list of sorts on his phone.

 

**Nick**

~~**Timmy** ~~

**Victor**

~~**Mom & Dad** ~~

**Timmy**

 

Would it be completely inappropriate to buy Timmy a Christmas gift? Would Timmy feel awkward because he hadn't bought Armie anything in return? Armie isn't expecting anything, doesn't even _want_ anything; he just wants to make Timmy smile.

Armie keeps his name on the list this time and shoves his phone into his right pocket; the _correct_ pocket, along with his wallet and stands from his seat ready to disembark as the train pulls in to Tarrytown's tiny, two-platform station.

When Armie exits the train and makes his way from the station and up along the lengthy stretch of hill that leads to the town's Main street, he thanks all that is good and holy that he's not in worse shape. _Has this hill always been so steep?_ He wonders but it's difficult not to stop and admire the view ahead of him. Bare trees hung with garlands of fairy lights line the narrow sidewalks; the lights glow a soft white, even in the frosty glare of late morning and each store along the hill is beautifully decorated with festive wreaths and tinsel. The entire street is nothing short of welcoming and Armie can't help but smile as he ambles up the hill and across the street toward River View wine & spirits; he's confident he'll find _something_ for Nick in there.

It's near 2pm when he finally stops for lunch at 'The Oath', a small craft ale bar nestled snuggly between the scatter of shops along Main Street. He orders at the bar and finds himself a quiet spot by a window that overlooks a few neighbouring houses. They remind him of the house his grandparents had lived in not far from here; the classic suburban family home where he had spent so many summers; he and his brother, Viktor. They would play swing-ball in the yard, fish by the river with their Grandpa, even ride their bikes through the wood and build forts out of old, broken tree branches. _'God, they were the worst forts.'_

He remembers it all. He even remembers a time when he thought maybe he'd have it all again one day with his own family, with Liz, with their kids but no; that hadn't worked out. Armie doesn't even know why he's surprised. He should have known from the start that they were never built to last. It had been a relationship of convenience rather than love but Armie had been willing to settle; Liz hadn't. So, he's alone now; _'big fucking deal'_ Armie thinks except it is a big deal and he knows it. He fucking _hates_ being alone. Hell, it had been the sole reason he had been so willing to settle his entire future on a woman who was only ever using him as a place holder until something better, no, some _one_ better came along.

When his food arrives, he's suddenly a lot less hungry than he had been. Maybe coming here hadn't been such a good idea; wasn't today supposed to be about embracing the holiday season? Peace, love and joy or whatever it was that Timmy had said? Turns out, reminding yourself of how alone you are, how unlovable you are or how you only ever seem to disappoint the people around you; Well, it's pretty fucking difficult to feel any kind of joy after opening up that particular door. Armie leaves his food and orders a second beer instead, quickly followed by a third, a fourth and a couple of chasers. _'Liquid lunch it is.'_ he thinks as he mumbles a quiet “Cheers.” to nobody in particular and downs the rest of his drink.

By the time he's boarding the train back to Harlem it's dark and already cold enough to see his breath again but Armie is warmed by the alcohol coursing through him, numbing his mind as well as his body.

The ride back is quiet and boring and Armie struggles to find anything interesting enough to hold his attention. It's already too dark to make out the scenic views that could otherwise be enjoyed but truth be told, he's taken in the view along the Hudson more times than he can count on both hands; it's grown old and tired. That's when Armie reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone; he rarely entertains Facebook as a means of distraction but tonight, stuck on this train and stuck even more so inside his own head, he's willing to try just about anything.

He searches 'Timmy' and sets the location search radius to 'New York, USA' but is met only with thousands upon thousands of what Armie likes to call “Generic Timmy's.” Timmy's that he's sure are very nice, stand-up guys but they're not his Timmy. Armie snorts a quiet laugh and rolls his eyes at himself. ' _His Timmy'._ If only.

Hitting back on his current Facebook search he's suddenly hit with a stroke of genius as he types in 'Saoirse' and prays that he's not met with another plethora of people he doesn't particularly give a fuck about. ' _I mean, how many Saoirse's can there be?'_ Armie thinks. A lot, apparently but he beams when he finds that the one he's looking for is the third name on the list.

Armie should probably be embarrassed that he's resorted to online stalking just to get even the slightest glimpse into Timmy's life but he's full of Dutch courage and he'd be lying if he said his heart hadn't practically leapt from his chest with excitement when he found 'Timothée Chalamet' amongst Saoirse's Facebook friends.

 _'Fucking “Timoth_ _ée”. The little shit is French!'_ Armie grins. He could fucking swoon but he quickly reminds himself that he is _not_ a 14 year old girl. Though while Armie may be above outwardly swooning at Timmy's profile picture (that is all hair, cheekbones and pouty lips just for the fucking record) he is not above adding Timmy as a friend on Facebook like the stalker he apparently is. With a quick tap of his finger he sends a friend request and shoves his phone back into his pocket with a grin; his day suddenly improving.

When the train eventually pulls back in to 125th street station, Armie has almost completely forgotten the day's woes. His buzz has lessened and he's feeling the cold a little more. He nuzzles into his scarf and pulls on his gloves with a contented sigh. Even the persistent snow fall doesn't particularly bother Armie tonight because if he's honest, all he can really think about is _Timothée. Timothée Chalamet._ He wonders if the name would sound even half as appealing without the boy himself attached to it; Armie knows it wouldn't. It's not about the name, it's about that boy with his hair and his face and his awkward mannerisms. It's _all_ about Timmy.

As he navigates through the darkened streets of Harlem, trudging his way back to his apartment through freshly fallen snow, Armie finds himself checking his phone for the fourth time since sending Timmy the friend request. Praying silently each time he pulls it from his pocket that he'll be greeted with a notification; ' **Timothée Chalamet has accepted your friend request.** ' but so far, nada!

“You're being ridiculous.” he grumbles to himself as he shoves his phone back into his pocket but as more time passes Armie finds that he's back in his own head; convincing himself that Timmy has seen the request, laughed his fucking ass off at just how pathetic Armie is and then promptly deleted it. _'No, Timmy wouldn't do that. He's not like that.'_ he counteracts a moment later but it does nothing to settle the unease in Armie's stomach.

Speaking of Armie's stomach, it's been growling since he left the train and he can't help but regret having not eaten at lunch. _'Beer munchies are finally kicking in.'_ He pushes thoughts of Timmy to somewhere in the back of his mind and weighs up his options for dinner; though a part of Armie already knows he'll be picking up takeout rather than a grocery basket tonight. It's not that Armie doesn't like to cook or that he can't cook for that matter, it's more that he doesn't see much point anymore now that he doesn't have anybody to cook for.

He stops by 'Chez Lucienne' on his way home and orders a carton of French onion soup, Boeuf Bourguignon and a Fondant Au Chocolat for dessert and while Armie is paying for his order he's definitely _not_ trying to convince himself that his sudden craving for French cuisine has absolutely nothing to do with a certain someone.

When he reaches his apartment, Armie doesn't even stop to check his mailbox. He breezes by and heads straight up the stairs, eager to tuck in to the food he's carried 6 blocks while his stomach practically thundered at him. He rounds the corner of the 4th floor, strides down the hall and shoves his key into the lock, slamming the door behind him.

It's not until his food is set out on the kitchen counter that he feels it; the sense he's missed something, that something is out of place and not quite right. He glances around his apartment and finds nothing unusual but somehow, something still feels _off._

He eats in silence and checks his phone a couple more times; still wordlessly begging the social media gods for that one notification. “Nothing.” he sighs and tosses his phone across the room and onto the couch before sparing another glance around his apartment, still unable to shake that same feeling from earlier. Then, it suddenly dawns on him. He strides across the room, straight for his front door and throws it open; he shoots a quick look up and down the empty hall and then down at the floor; there it is... another package; brown paper, white string, _'rustic wrapping.'_ Armie likes to call it.

Picking it up from the floor he brings it inside. The hefty weight of today's gift piques his interest but he refrains from ripping into the paper just yet, choosing first to flip over the tag where he finds the same scrawled hand writing as the previous two days.

 

_'Armie,_

_On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me...'_

 

Armie sets the gift down on his kitchen counter and begins tearing into it, letting paper fall to the floor in his eagerness to find out what's inside. His eyes light up at the sight before him; three bags of Italian roast Prestigioso Crema coffee beans. Armie _loves_ coffee, it's a staple in his diet. He lifts a bag and admires the contents through the clear plastic; He can't wait to kick start his day with this particular gift and he thanks whoever it is out there leaving him these small, thoughtful gestures.

“Well...” he smiles, placing the bag back on the counter. “Merry Christmas to you too. Whoever you are.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in this particular chapter I've mentioned Tarry Town; I just wanted to say for anybody unaware, that this little town does exist up along the Hudson river. It's a neighbouring town to Sleepy Hollow and possibly one of the most beautiful places I've ever had the fortune to visit. I've really tried to do it justice in this chapter but for anybody requiring a visual aid, google has plenty of stunning images. Most, if not all locations mentioned in this fic do actually exist in New York as I've really tried to keep as close to reality as possible while writing this but as I'm actually from England and have only visited New York the once, I am aware that there are probably a few mistakes so if anybody spots any, please let me know as I'd love to correct any mismatched information!
> 
> Really hope you've all enjoyed this chapter even though there was a severe lack of Timmy and I'd just like to thank you all for your amazing comments so far. More to come very, very soon!


	5. On the fourth day of Christmas...

_On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me..._

 

Armie makes it to Holy Apostle's in record time the following morning, he's eager to see Timmy, morbid curiosity having set in on the way there; he needs to know whether Timmy received his friend request, whether he was being ignored on purpose, whether Timmy really did think Armie was a pathetic stalker. He cringes as he thinks back to how keen he had been the previous night, hitting that fucking stupid blue button without a second thought. Well, he's thinking about it now and boy is he regretting it.

As he lumbers through the front doors, he finds everyone there but the one person he's desperate to lay eyes on. He hangs up his jacket and scarf, tucks his gloves into his pocket and approaches Saoirse by the donation desk. “No Timmy?” he asks, trying his best to sound casual in his enquiry. Before Saoirse even has a chance to answer, the door swings open and in walks Timmy; hands shoved deep into his pockets, black beanie hat pulled down over his ears and his face hidden in his scarf. He's not making eye contact with a single person in the room, eyes fixed firmly on the floor as he marches toward the back and begins unzipping his coat. He looks pissed off, Armie notes. Is it because of him? Is he pissed off that Armie sent him the friend request? _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_

Armie is torn between the crippling fear of making things worse and his desperate need to fix things and make Timmy understand that he's not some obsessive weirdo, not really. He just maybe, kind of likes him a little... okay, a lot.

When Armie approaches, Timmy still has his back to him. He's unwrapping his scarf from around his neck and stuffing it into the sleeve of his coat for safe-keeping. “Timmy. Hey, I just wa-” Armie falls silent mid sentence when Timmy turns to face him. He's sporting a black eye and a cut to the bridge of his nose. “Fuck. Tim, what happened, man?” he asks, almost tempted to reach out and cup Timmy's face.

“Nothing. I'm fine.” Timmy huffs but he's fooling nobody, least of all Armie.

“Doesn't look like you're fine. What happened?” Armie asks again.

“I was mugged on my way home last night. It's fine, _really_. It happens.”

“It happens?” Armie repeats. He's astonished that that's all Timmy has to say on the matter. “ _It happens?!_ ” he says again and Timmy just shrugs.

“They took my phone and my wallet. Could've been a lot worse. I'm _fine_.”

His phone. They took his phone... he hadn't ignored Armie's attempt to reach out at all. He didn't think Armie was a loser or a stalker or any of the things that Armie had convinced himself of. No, Timmy had been mugged, fucking robbed and Armie had only been thinking of himself. But how could he have known? _'Doesn't matter. You're still an asshole.'_ Armie thinks to himself.

The dark, mottled bruising around Tim's left eye is such a stark contrast to the rest of his skin; usually so smooth and fair that Armie desperately wants to brush his thumb just below the blemished socket. How anybody could bring themselves to damage such a beautifully delicate face is beyond him.

“You're staring.” Timmy mumbles shyly. He's scratching the back of his neck again, the way he does when he's feeling awkward or uncomfortable and Armie can't believe he's just been busted. ' _Fuck!'_

“What? Oh, right. Well, yeah. I mean... your eye.” Armie fumbles for an excuse and prays that he sounds composed enough for Timmy to buy it.

“Don't worry about it.” Timmy says as he ties his apron around his waist and shoots Armie a sad but thankful smile before walking away.

Don't worry about it? If only life was that easy. Of course Armie was going to worry about it; somebody had mugged Timmy, his Timmy! ' _Not your Timmy.'_ He reminds himself and grabs a cloth, ready to busy himself with wiping down tables and definitely _not_ think about Timmy.

 

By the time lunch rolls around, Armie has already made the short walk along 9th avenue to 'Bagels & More.' He's hoping to cheer Timmy up with a bagel and cream cheese and when he drops the paper bag down in front of a sullen looking Tim, the boy's eyes light up and Armie can see the smile he's trying so fucking hard to mask. “I had to take a guess on what you liked but... what New Yorker doesn't like a bagel?” Armie grins. Timmy peeks inside the bag and the smell alone is enough to make his mouth water. “Come on.” Armie says “You look like you could use a break. Let's eat.”

They head toward the back of the room, securing themselves a table in the corner where they're unlikely to be disturbed. Timmy has no sooner sat down than he's riffling through the paper bag and stuffing the bacon & cream cheese bagel into his mouth. He moans in appreciation, eyes closed and cheeks full before swallowing and that's when he lets it slip. “God, I love you.” Timmy sighs and Armie almost chokes on his own food. Timmy's eyes fly open, he's like a deer caught in headlights and Armie would laugh if the whole situation wasn't so mortifying.

“I mean, like... not _love_ love. Just, you know. The bagel is really, uh... What I meant to say was-” Timmy is rambling, reaching into the dark for anything articulate enough to pass as nonchalant but he's coming up empty handed every time.

“It's fine. I get it.” Armie forces a laugh and averts his gaze. _'When did this get so awkward?'_ He wonders. _'Oh, right. When he said he fucking loved you and you wanted to say it back. Jesus, Hammer. Get your shit together.'_

“Thank you for lunch, is all I was trying to say.” Timmy smiles and takes another bite of his bagel.

“So...” Armie bites the bullet, desperate to change the subject. “I friended you on Facebook last night.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. _Timothée_ , huh?” Armie smirks.

“ _Armand_ , huh?” Timmy retorts and then suddenly there's a look of confusion on Armie's face as his brow creases and he bites his lower lip as though thinking real fucking hard about something.

“I never told you that.” Armie finally says.

Timmy looks panicked again and takes another huge bite of his bagel. He's stalling for time, trying to come up with an answer, any fucking answer. “Uh, yes you did.” he says around a mouthful of bread.

“No, I'm pretty sure I didn't. I never tell _anyone_ that.” Armie laughs. “How'd you know?”

“You told me.” Timmy insists.

“Did not.”

“Did too!”

“Did not, did not.” Armie is grinning now, ear to fucking ear and as Timmy beams back at him Armie can't help but lean across the table. He's propped up on elbows, staring Timmy down; their eyes locked and unmoving as he inches closer and closer. They're close enough that Timmy swears Armie can hear his heart thundering in his chest and Timmy is about to close his eyes when Armie's head dips and the fucker steals a bite of Timmy's bagel before pulling back, a shit eating grin spread across his face.

“What the fuck, man?!” Timmy all but squawks.

“That's what you get for lying to me, Chalamet.”

Timmy rolls his eyes and shoves Armie playfully. “Hope you choke. Fucker!”

 

It's while the two of them are doing the dishes that Armie decides to broach the subject of safety in numbers. They're hunched over the large metal basin behind the serving counter, Timmy washing and Armie drying when Armie clears his throat and says “So, I was thinking...” and then pauses, giving himself a little time, a chance to talk himself out of what he's about to suggest but before he knows it, Timmy is prompting him to continue.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Um, so I think you should let me walk you home tonight... safety in numbers, you know?” Armie feels more than a little ridiculous suggesting it, he knows he's not Timmy's protector, he knows Timmy doesn't _need_ him but he also knows that Timmy looks like an easy target and just the thought of it happening again makes Armie feel sick to his stomach. The look on Timmy's face tells him that Timmy thinks he's being ridiculous too.

“What? Armie. No. You don't need to do that.” Timmy says, passing Armie another plate to dry.

“No, but I'd like to. Yorkville is on my way. It wont take me long to jump off with you, walk you home and jump back on. I don't mind.”

“Really, Armie. It's okay. I'm tougher than I look.” Timmy insists but Armie's not buying it. If that was true Timmy would still be in possession of his phone and his wallet.

“Yeah, well...” Armie starts “As tough as you may _actually_ look with that black eye, I'd feel better if you'd let me walk you home.”

“Please drop it.” Timmy's response is more abrupt than Armie had expected. Was he mad? Had Armie managed to insult Timmy for a second time since meeting him?

“I'm sorry. I just-”

“I said drop it, Armie. No means no. I don't need you to walk me home. I'm not your fucking prom date. Stop!” and before Armie knows what's happening, Timmy is pulling off his apron, dumping it on the side of the basin and grabbing his coat. He doesn't even bother to pull it on before he practically rips the door from its hinges and storms out.

Armie stands at the sink, frozen with disbelief. He's fucking mortified to say the least. _'What the fuck just happened?'_

He doesn't even say goodbye when he leaves for the day. Just finds a supervisor, asks for a signature on his time sheet and grabs his things. Armie isn't entirely sure why Timmy flipped the way he did but when he'd mentioned their dispute to Saoirse later in the day, she'd cringed and then just shook her head. Armie swears he had heard her mutter “Idiot.” under her breath but he doesn't know whether she was referring to himself or Timmy... Armie doesn't know much, it would seem.

One thing Armie does know, is that the gift waiting for him outside of his apartment door when he arrives home cheers him up to no end. _'At least someone gives a shit about me.'_ He thinks and grabs the brown paper parcel, carrying it inside. This one's a box, a thin one by the feel of things. He sets it down on the kitchen counter and shrugs out of his jacket and scarf before flipping the tag.

 

_'Armie,_

_On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...'_

 

Carefully, he undoes the string and tears away the wrapping, grinning when he reads 'Mille-Feuille' written across the box; he fucking _loves_ Mille-Feuille. “Best patisserie in New York!” he had raved to Nick one afternoon. When he lifts the lid, his mouth all but waters at the sight; four beautifully decorated, delicate French pastries. Armie thinks back on last night's dinner. “Tis the season to gain twenty pounds apparently.” he laughs to himself and hides the box away in the refrigerator. ' _Out of sight out of mind.'_ It was just a shame the same couldn't be said for Timmy.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I just want to thank you all for your lovely comments. They really do mean the world and help tremendously whenever I find myself stuck with this fic. You're all fantastic and I'm so, so pleased that you're enjoying things so far.
> 
> Thanks again for reading. I'll be back tomorrow with another chapter! x


	6. On the fifth day of Christmas...

_On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me..._

 

Tuesday at Holy Apostle's leaves a lot to be desired in Armie's opinion; it's a slow day with very little to keep his mind occupied. He finds himself wandering aimlessly between tables looking for something to clean while he replays his altercation with Timmy from the day before over and over in his mind. How had he managed to fuck things up so spectacularly? Was the thought of Armie simply wanting to make sure Timmy was safe really so offensive? So infuriating that Timmy couldn't even stand to be around him for the rest of the afternoon?

It's not until much later in the day when Armie is hunched over a table in the corner of the room, picking at his lunch and not really paying attention to much of anything that he suddenly sees two tickets slide across the table and fully into view. Looking up from his food, he's met with a bashful Timmy; he's biting his lower lip and looking entirely too anxious. “Peace offering?” Timmy says and Armie finds the boy's nervous demeanour too endearing to resist.

“Huh?” Armie asks, glancing down at the tickets in font of him completely and utterly dumfounded. Just when Armie thinks he has Timmy figured out and finally knows where he stands, the kid has a way of pulling the rug right out from under his feet. _'I guess he doesn't hate me after all.'_

“So, um... The Metrograph, downtown are showing 'It's a wonderful life' tonight and I um, I dunno. I figured maybe you'd like to go with me or whatever? I dunno. Yeah, no... no, it's a stupid idea. Forget I said anythi-”

“I'd love to.” Armie interrupts “It's a wonderful life is one of my favourite Christmas movies and for what it's worth; no peace offering was needed. We're good.” Timmy visibly relaxes at Armie's words and takes a seat with Armie at their usual table before launching into a tirade of information about what he has planned for their evening out.

 _'Is this a date?'_ Armie thinks to himself. _'No. Don't be stupid. He already told you; it's a peace offering.'_ Date, peace offering. Whatever; Armie doesn't believe the two ideas need be mutually exclusive.

 

They meet on Ludlow street at 7:30. Armie comes straight from the soup kitchen and can't help but pull Timmy into a chaste hug when they greet one another for the second time that day. “mpfh” Timmy says, his face buried somewhere against Armie's shoulder, his speech muffled by the bone crushing hug.

“Shit. Sorry!” Armie laughs, pulling back and allowing Timmy to take a breath. “What was that?”

“I said how are you?” Timmy is pushing his hair back out of his eyes and flashing a bright smile; He's all cheekbone and dimples again and Armie thinks his heart might actually explode if he lets himself stare too long.

“I'm good, I'm good. So, uh... which direction?” Armie asks, trying to refocus his attention on anything other than how fucking stunning Timothée is.

“Follow me.” Timmy says, dragging Armie along the side walk by his sleeve as he navigates the two of them through the bustle of tourists lining the street. It takes everything in Armie's power not to say fuck it and just take Timmy's hand instead. He wants to lace their fingers together but no, he's not that brave. Not yet.

When They arrive at the Metrograph, they head straight for the concessions stand where Armie insists on paying, even when Timmy argues that this was supposed to be his way of apologising. “I told you, no apology necessary!” Armie reminds him and hands his money across the counter.

“Thanks, Armie.” Timmy says with a shy smile and Armie melts just that little bit more; This kid is going to be the death of him.

 

Timmy leads them to their seats while Armie trails behind, admiring the vintage interior of the theatre. It reminds Armie of the movie theatres he and his brother would visit as children; rows of plush, red velvet and darkened beechwood seating that he could already tell would be far too cramped for his 6''5 frame but he didn't care. He'd bundle himself into any tight space he had to in order to be closer to Timmy. So, as they take their seats, Armie practically folds himself in half, knees bent up in front of him and Timmy just laughs and apologises for having not picked a place with more ample leg room. _'Worth it.'_ Armie thinks as they settle fully into their chairs and their knees rest against each another. _'So fucking worth it.'_

They're nearing the end of the movie when Armie sneaks a glance at Timmy. The younger man is biting his lower lip, eyes glassy with tears as he watches George reunite with his family on screen, having realised that he truly does want to live after all. Armie nudges him and they share a smile, both amused at Timmy's inability to hold it together during the more emotional scenes of the film. When it does eventually end, Armie finds that he's not quite ready to call it night just yet. The thought of saying goodbye to Timmy, even just for the hand full of hours until he'll see him next, fills Armie with a sense of illogical despair. “Hey, do you maybe want to grab a drink?” Armie asks as they exit the warmth of the movie theatre and step out into the icy December air.

“I would but I didn't bring my ID and I _always_ get carded.” Timmy cringes and shoots Armie an apologetic smile.

“Oh. Yeah, okay. That's cool...” Armie tries his best not to sound too disappointed.

“But we could go for a walk or something. If you wanted to? I mean it's probably not as much fun as a bar but...”

“No, I'd like that. Let's do that. Let's walk.” Armie is suddenly a lot more chipper and Timmy grins at the impromptu change in the older man's voice. They make short work of the walk from Ludlow Street to the quiet park that runs along the East river of Manhattan and as they walk side by side, their footfall completely in sync Armie thinks that this feels _right._ Being here with Timmy, just taking in the view of the Williamsburg bridge lit up bright against the night sky while they talk about everything and nothing at all; this is what he wants.

They trade stories from High school and Armie almost doubles over, crying with laugher when Timmy asks to borrow Armie's phone and presents him with a less than flattering video of Timmy himself rapping about statistics.

“A D+? are you kidding me?” Armie wheezes through laughter. “Man, if one of my kids turned _that_ in as homework I'd be ashamed to give it anything less than an A+. Your teacher was an asshole.”

“One of your kids? You teach?”

 _'Oh. That's right. Shit. Timmy doesn't know!'_ Armie had avoided mentioning work in front of Timmy; too worried that the younger man would pass judgement on the fact that Armie had only wound up working at Holy Apostle's as a way to payback his “debt to society”.

“Uh, yeah. First grade, actually.” Armie nods.

“You never said.”

“You never asked.”

Timmy laughs and rolls his eyes at what has fast become their typical back and forth bullshit.

“So, how do you find the time?” Timmy asks.

“What do you mean?” but Armie knows exactly what Timmy is asking, he's just trying to buy time; stall and hope that the question will go away but it doesn't because Timmy is talking again, re-wording his question and Armie _knows_ that this is it; he has to answer.

“You really don't know?” Armie says as they stand side by side, leaning against the stone wall that overlooks the river.

“I really don't know.” Timmy shrugs. He sounds sincere enough and Armie can hear the curiosity in his voice.

“Alright. Well...” Armie sighs “I spent Thanksgiving with my parents in LA this year. Drove cross country with my friend; he came along for moral support, you know?”

Timmy nods but doesn't say anything, just rests his chin on his fist and waits for Armie to continue.

“Anyway, he knows my mother, knows what she's like and how difficult it can be for me to spend too much time around her so he brought a little weed along to keep me mellow.”

“Okay?” Timmy says, not really seeing the problem thus far.

“When I say he brought a little weed I mean a fuck ton. On the way home we were stopped crossing state lines and they found it in the glove box. Nick was high and I guess I was high too since he'd smoked in the car for the majority of the drive...”

“Oh. Fuck!”

“Yeah. So they haul our asses into the back of a squad car and we spend the night in jail. My friend got off but because I was the one driving and because the car they found it in was in my name... not to mention my profession on top of it all. I guess the judge wanted to make an example. So, I walked away with 8 weeks community service and a $700 fine. Fucking sucked.”

“Does it still?” Timmy asks quietly, eyes cast down toward the river below them.

“Still what?”

“Does it still suck?” Timmy is biting his lip nervously, still unable to meet Armie's gaze as he awaits an answer.

“Well, the $700 fine still sucks but the community service... I guess that's not so bad.” Armie smirks, side glancing Timmy and knocking the shorter man's shoulder with his own.

“Glad to hear it.” Timmy smiles and their eyes finally meet. For what feels like an eternity but can't be longer than a few seconds they just stand there, staring at one another and Armie swears he can feel a magnetic pull urging him to lean in and close the distance but then Timmy is speaking again, breaking the tension completely. “Come on, Hammer; it's getting late.” he says as he pushes himself up from their resting place against the cold, stone wall.

By the time Armie arrives home, he's thoroughly inside his own head. His entire body buzzing with a giddiness he hasn't felt in a long, long time. All he can think about is Timmy and their evening; the way he'd felt staring into those eyes. _'God, those fucking eyes!'_ he thinks.

So, when Armie once again rounds the corner to his apartment and finds another package waiting for him outside his door, he can't help but laugh. He should be used to this by now, it's been five days but a part of Armie is half expecting his secret admirer to get bored and stop leaving him these quite frankly, _adorable_ tokens of affection. He wastes no time in stooping down to pick the gift up from the floor and then flips the tag, as he does every day and there in that same, now very familiar scrawl he reads

 

_'Armie,_

_On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...'_

 

Armie grins and rips into the gift with undeniable enthusiasm. Five festive tea-light candles fall from the packaging and Armie can't resist sniffing one. Truth be told, he had always been a huge Bath & body works slut. “Hm. Cinnamon.” he nods in approval and kicks his door shut behind him with every intention of lighting his candles and relaxing for the rest of the night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I say this every time but thank you all so much for your wonderful comments and your kind words. The response to the last chapter was so overwhelming. Quite a few of you shared personal experiences and stories with me and for that I'm truly grateful; those are the small gestures that really influence me to do my absolute best by this fic and all of you. 
> 
> I'm so, so pleased everybody seems to be enjoying this story and in all honesty, I've not enjoyed writing something this much in a very long time but I think a huge part of that is down to you lovely people who take the time to read, comment and leave kudos. You're all wonderful and I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as you have the last few. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and I'll be back with chapter 6 tomorrow! x


	7. On the sixth day of Christmas...

_On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me..._

 

Armie wakes with a start on Wednesday morning, the anticipation of seeing Timmy again is almost too much to bare; he needs his fix and Armie would be lying if he said he hadn't spent the previous night curled up on his couch replaying their entire evening over and over in his mind. Armie steps into the shower and wonders if Timmy ever thinks of him with the same sort of affection but then he feels silly for even entertaining something so absurd, because why would he? Armie is fully aware that this fast growing infatuation is entirely one-sided and that fact alone only serves to cripple his heart a little more. So, Armie does his utmost to refocus his energy and occupy his mind with thoughts of something other than high cheekbones, pouty lips and dark curls.

By the time Armie reaches Holy Apostle's his cheeks and the tips of his ears glow pink as a result of the harsh winds blustering down 9th Avenue. He steps inside and immediately scans the room for Timmy. _'Where is he? Where is he? Where is h-'_

“Well if it isn't Pablo Escobar himself!” Timmy laughs from behind him and claps Armie on the shoulder. Armie just rolls his eyes and snorts a laugh.

“Escobar was cocaine. All I had was weed, Timmy.”

Timmy shrugs. “Still a drug lord.”

“Smart ass.”

Timmy smirks and tosses a hairnet at Armie. “Before Saoirse has to remind you.”

“She's not the boss of me!” Armie pouts; it's petulant but playful and it has Timmy beaming from ear to ear, flashing those fucking dimples again.

“I mean, she kind of is.” Timmy reminds him.

“Yeah!” Saoirse chimes in suddenly. “I kind of am.” Armie jumps, startled by her unanticipated appearance.

“Where the _fuck_ did you come from?”

“I'm always watching, Hammer. _Always!_ ” Saoirse teases and then throws a casual “Hairnet!” over her shoulder as she walks away again.

 

It's nearing Armie's lunch break when Nick is practically blown through the doors of the soup kitchen; he's clutching a backpack that Armie recognises as his own. It's full of homework assignments from his class; Armie had left his things at Nick's apartment the night before the two of them had driven to LA and since Armie wasn't expected back at work any time soon... well, he hadn't exactly been in a rush to pick up another reminder of his “Temporary leave of absence”.

Nick had called Armie the night before and practically insisted that he drop Armie's belongings in at the soup kitchen rather than Armie's apartment. “I gotta see you in that hairnet, man!” he had laughed and Armie could practically _hear_ the smirk on his friend's face.

“There's the man of the hour!” Nick chirps, approaching Armie and Timmy by the donation desk. “Have you eaten lunch yet?”

Armie shakes his head no and Nick grins. “Great, me either. You're buying.” Nick says as he reaches up to pull on Armie's hairnet. “Cute headgear.”

Armie rolls his eyes and swats Nick's hand away. Nick laughs and hands the backpack over. “Quit leaving your shit at my apartment or you're not staying over again.” he says. “It's too fucking cold to be trekking across town every time your forgetful ass leaves something behind.”

Armie is suddenly very aware of Timmy looking between he and Nick and feels rude for having not introduced the two of them sooner. “Oh, shit. Uh, Nick this is Timmy. Timmy, Nick.”

Nick extends his hand but Timmy doesn't take it. Just looks Nick up and down, fixing him with a cold stare. “Hey.” Timmy mumbles and returns to sorting through the plastic basket, piled high with donations. Nick raises his eyebrows at Armie, a silent ' _What the fuck is his problem?'_ passing between them but Armie shrugs because really... what the fuck _is_ Timmy's problem? He had been fine just minutes earlier, joking with Armie about the Egg-nogg in the donation box that he fully intended to stash _“for emergencies, obviously.”_

“Alright, well um...” Armie starts “I'm gonna take lunch now if you wanted to come with u-”

“No.” Timmy's voice is flat, completely deadpan and lacking of any emotion.

“Oh. Um, okay. Well, I'll see you when I get back I guess?”

Timmy shrugs, doesn't even take his eyes off of the task at hand. Just fucking shrugs. _'Ouch.'_ and when Armie turns back around, Nick looks practically fit to burst. The man is biting through his fucking lip trying not to laugh. To say Armie is confused would be an understatement and when he shoots Nick a confused, questioning look Nick just shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Come on. I'm hungry.” is the only thing Nick says as he drags Armie away.

 

He spends the majority of lunch completely baffled by Nick's smug demeanour. Had he missed something? What the fuck was Nick's game here?

“Okay, stop with the shit-eating grin and just tell me. What the fuck is your deal?” Armie finally snaps when he catches Nick smirking at him from across the table for the sixth time. Nick looks up from his food and feigns innocence.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You've been giving me the look since we left.”

“The look?”

Armie groans in frustration and plants his hands firmly into open palms. “The look; _the_ look. The one you give me when you know something I don't so just cut the shit and tell me already.”

“I don't do a look.” Nick huffs.

“Yes, you fucking do. Stop stalling and tell me.”

Nick just shrugs and takes an obnoxiously large bite of his sandwich. “Nothin' to tell.” He says, mouth full.

“Unbelievable that you're still single.” Armie grimaces. His words dripping with sarcasm as Nick flashes him another view of the half chewed food in his mouth.

“Not everybody thinks I am.” Nick sniggers and there it is again, that fucking look!

“What's that supposed to mean?” Armie asks but Nick doesn't answer. Just starts telling Armie about his plans for New Year because Nick is having way too much fun with this.

Nick isn't a stupid man by any stretch of the imagination and he'd like to believe that he's actually pretty fucking good at reading people, reading signals even. You don't take a different girl home every weekend without that particular skill set. Timmy's frosty reception back at the soup kitchen had initially struck Nick as odd and just a little dick-ish; that was until he'd caught the flash of hurt in Timmy's eyes, saw the way his posture had changed and he'd turned his back on them to busy himself, desperate not to have to watch Nick and Armie interact any longer. Nick recognised those signals and they meant only one thing; Timmy was interested, not in Nick but in Armie and _that_ was fucking gold!

Nick feels a little bad for not having made it clearer that he was in fact Armie's best friend and not his boyfriend but the whole situation had escalated so quickly that Nick had thought it best to remove himself ASAP. They'd work it out themselves, Nick is sure but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little amused by how oblivious his friend could be.

 

When Armie returns from Lunch he walks in to find Timmy and Saoirse deep in conversation at their usual table and while on any other day, Armie would probably head over and join them, today he's reluctant. Armie's still not entirely sure what had caused Timmy to give him the cold shoulder earlier but it had certainly wounded Armie's ego somewhat. That all too familiar sinking feeling has returned to his stomach and Armie just cannot fathom how he's managed to fuck this up so many times already. It's frustrating to say the least, he's barely known the kid a week and already managed to piss him off a grand total of three times. But then, Armie wonders; is it less him and more Timmy? Does the kid have a Jekyll & Hyde complex?

It's as he's pondering Timmy's split personality disorder that he feels a firm hand rest against his shoulder and turns to find the younger man behind him, staring up apologetically. “I just wanted to say I'm sorry.” Timmy mumbles.

 _'Yep. Definitely getting a Jekyll & Hyde vibe.' _Armie thinks and then nods, biting down a little on the inside of his cheek. What's he supposed to say to that? It's okay? … _was_ it okay? Why does this all feel so uncomfortable? Armie settles on “What happened?” and as ever, Timmy just shrugs. “Did you not like Nick or something?”

Timmy shakes his head and looks a little embarrassed before he finally speaks. “No. I mean, yeah. Yeah, I liked him. I just... I dunno. I'm sorry if I was a jerk. I'm just a little socially awkward I guess. He seems nice though.”

“He is. He's my best friend for a reason.”

Timmy's eyes widen and he gawps for a second, almost unbelieving. “Best friend?” he reiterates.

“Yeah. Best friend, why?”

“I thought- I dunno. I dunno what I thought. I'm just sorry I was a dick to your friend. Apologise to him for me?”

Armie's smiling now and Timmy appears to have relaxed a little too. “Yeah. I'll do that.” Armie says and as Timmy turns to walk away Armie's not entirely sure what possess him to ask but he can't quite help himself. “Hey, Timmy?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to ride home together later? Promise I wont offer to walk you to your door again.” Armie jokes and Timmy just shakes his head and laughs. Armie is certain that it's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. I'd like that.”

 

And so at 7:00pm they find themselves pulling on scarfs, zipping up jackets and heading out into the cold, unforgiving New York night. They fall into step with ease and for a while the crunch of fresh snow underfoot is the only sound to be heard. Timmy can't quite believe he's doing this again; taking the train all the way up town under the senseless pretence that he lives in Yorkville.

He doesn't know why he'd lied in the first place except that's a lie too because he totally knows why; he had wanted to spend more time with Armie, completely unprepared to let him disappear into the dark and so when the older man had first asked if Timmy was headed up town too, Timmy had lied. Now he was caught in a lie and it was fucking spiralling. Forever destined to take the train up town just to take it back again because he's too proud and stubborn to just tell Armie _'Hey, I actually only live three blocks from the kitchen. That's why I can't let you walk me home, because I'm a huge fucking fraud with a huge fucking crush on you. My bad.'_ Timmy is cringing inwardly at his own thoughts when Armie finally speaks, breaking the deafening silence between them.

“So, what'll you do while your family are in Paris?” Armie asks. He's not really sure he _should_ be asking but he can't help himself, curiosity creeping in.

“I have a show to keep me busy.” Timmy says as he swipes his MetroCard and they head down into the subway.

“A show? Like theatre?”

“Like art.” Timmy corrects him with a soft smile and Armie is fascinated already. How had he not known this captivating little fact about Timmy? _'Probably something to do with you having only known him a week, ass-hat.'_

They bundle themselves into the overcrowded train carriage and Armie tries to ignore the way they're practically pressed together, chest to chest while he continues his line of questioning. “You're an artist?

“I guess.” Timmy shrugs. “I'm not all that good though.”

“You're good enough to have a show. When is it?”

“Christmas Eve.”

“Why didn't you say something?”

“I didn't think you'd be interested.” Timmy shrugs. _'Always with the fucking shrugging.'_

The train comes to a screaming halt and Timmy is shuffling his way toward the doors, yelling his goodbyes over his shoulder before Armie even has chance to respond. _'Didn't think i'd be interested? Didn't think i'd be fucking interested. Like i'm not interested in everything you do, Timothée Chalamet. Literally fucking everything!'_ Armie heaves a sigh of frustration and takes a seat as a few more people file out of the carriage.

 

By the time Armie reaches his apartment he's already spent the entirety of his walk from the subway scrolling through what little access he has to Timmy's Facebook page; a total of 12 photos, 3 status updates from 2016 and a check-in at a bar called 'Rudy's.' Armie wonders how often Timmy frequents Rudy's... should he go there? Chance bumping into Timmy accidentally on purpose? Would that be too creepy? _'Yes, you fucking weirdo.'_

Armie comes to a stop outside of his apartment and smiles at the gift on his welcome mat. He doesn't need to open this one to know what it is, fully familiar with this particular shape but never one to break tradition, Armie does his usual and makes sure to flip the tag before ripping open the package.

 

_'Armie,_

_On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...'_

 

He kicks his apartment door shut behind him and tears into the paper, pulling out a six-pack of beer. He's grinning like a lunatic and wastes no time in popping one open and fridging the rest. _'Well fucking earned!'_ Armie thinks taking his first sip. “Here's to you, secret Santa.” he sighs contentedly and then finally allows himself to collapse onto his couch for the rest of the evening.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I really hope that the big reveal of why Timmy's been acting so shady wasn't too disappointing? You all came up with much more interesting twists for what it could have been than I did but really it was just Timmy being an awkward dork about the whole situation and panicking about being caught in a lie. I can't believe we're at chapter 6 already (half way through, guys!) 
> 
> Thank you all again for reading. You have no idea how much I appreciate it!
> 
> See you tomorrow with Chapter 7!


	8. On the seventh day of Christmas...

_On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me..._

 

“That's a lot of food...” Armie states, taking in the huge stack of containers, overflowing with canned goods. There are non perishables, fresh fruit, veg and a few things wrapped in wax paper that are shaped suspiciously like Christmas puddings.

“Yeah.” Saoirse sighs beside him. “We always receive a _huge_ donation a few days before Christmas. It's takes forever to sort out and organise into proper storage but it comes in so handy for the Christmas community lunch.” She steps forward and begins digging through the boxes, muttering to herself about the overwhelming quantity of food and how long it's going to take to get through organising it all.

“We could do it!” Timmy pipes up from somewhere behind Armie. Saoirse turns to look between the two of them thoughtfully and then shakes her head.

“It'd be after closing, Tim. You can't just volunteer Armie's time like that.” Saoirse says but Armie can see how hopeful she is that they'll take on the monstrous task and allow her to head home at a reasonable time for a change.

“Armie doesn't mind.” Timmy grins. “It's one of the few jobs he can do without a hairnet.”

“Hilarious.” Armie drawls. His sarcasm doesn't go unnoticed by Timmy who shoots him a wink and throws an arm casually around Armie's shoulder. “He's right though.” Armie continues. “I don't mind. It's not like I have plans tonight or anything so... I'm all yours.” he says, directing the last few words at Timmy who ducks his head in attempt to hide his blush behind his curls.

“Alright. As long as you're sure?” Saoirse says eyeing them both skeptically.

“We're sure.” Timmy and Armie say in unison. Saoirse laughs, shaking her head before thanking them both with a kiss to the cheek.

 

The day passes in a blur. Armie spends most of his time on food prep duty and only manages to catch brief glimpses of Timmy. The younger man weaving between tables, chatting animatedly with people, some he knows, some he doesn't but Timmy is like that; friendly and approachable. He has a way of making people feel welcome, a quality Armie wishes he possessed himself.

When 7:00pm finally comes around and the last few patrons usher themselves out of the building, Timmy locks the two of them in while Armie begins carrying the deceptively heavy containers into the back.

“Damn, Hammer!” Timmy calls out. “been working out?”

Armie's caught off guard, surprised by Timmy's lighthearted flirtation but _fuck_ if he isn't enjoying it. “Like what you see, Chalamet?” he quips, smirking as he shoves his way past Timmy playfully.

“Eh. It's not bad... it's not bad.”

By 7:25pm they're both sat cross-legged on the cold, tile floor of the back room as they sort through and catalogue each individual item. Armie is telling Timmy all about growing up in the Cayman Islands and moving to LA.

“The struggle was _real!_ ” Armie laughs, jotting down another number on his clipboard.

“Blue hair though? Blue?” Timmy shakes his head.

“Hey! You don't get to judge me!” Armie says, pointing an accusatory finger in Timmy's direction. “How'd that rap go again? Statistics, statistics...” Armie's laughing now, bopping his head as he sings Timmy's own lyrics back to him.

Timmy's hiding his face in his hands, radiating pure embarrassment but Armie can see the smile spread across that beautiful face and all he wants to do is lean over, pull Timmy's hands from his face and kiss him. God, does he want to kiss him.

“You're a jerk.” Timmy mumbles.

“Yeah. Probably.”

Suddenly Timmy's eyes light up, as though remembering something important. The younger man leaps from the floor with excitement before grinning down at Armie. “Hey... wanna do something naughty?” he asks and Armie almost swallows his fucking tongue.

“Uh, w-what?”

“Wait here.” and then Timmy is bounding off across the room, he throws open one of the fridges and digs around for a while before Armie hears a triumphant “Ah ha!” from behind the fridge door. Moments later, Tim returns with a carton of eggnog and two glasses. “For emergencies, remember?”

“You're the worst!” Armie laughs but accepts a glass regardless. “If these numbers come up wrong, I'm blaming you.”

“Shut up and drink.” Timmy says, clinking their glasses together and Armie watches as he throws his head back and takes an unnecessarily large gulp.

“You know, drinking this is technically stealing, right? And I can only afford one felony at a time.” Armie teases as Timmy begins to unload another crate of donations.

“Relax. I'll replace it; scouts honour.”

“Were you ever _actually_ a scout, Timmy?”

“No. But I've eaten a lot of their cookies so... same difference.” Timmy shrugs.

 

It takes them precisely 3 hours and 26 minutes to exhaust an entire carton of eggnog and just over half a bottle of Brandy (that again, Timmy swears to replace) before they're finished with the stock check. Armie remains cross legged on the floor with his back pressed against the counter and notes the way Timmy's cheeks glow a warm pink when he's tipsy; it's adorable and Armie wants to reach out and ghost his thumb across the soft, flushed skin of Timmy's cheek but even in his semi-inebriated state, Armie's not quite _that_ ballsy. Xs

“But I do have a turtle.” Timmy says, pulling Armie from his thoughts and that's when Armie realises he really should have been paying more attention because truth be told; he hasn't heard a fucking word Timmy has been saying. Too lost in fantasy; imagining what it would be like to lean in, cup that perfectly sharp, angular jaw of Timmy's and draw him in for a kiss. _'Get a fucking grip, Hammer!'_

“Uh, what? A turtle?” Armie stutters. He's hoping Timmy hasn't already noticed the glazed over look in his eye or what Armie is assuming was a down right perverse expression on his face.

“Yeah. Urdle, that's his name. I've had him for as long as I can remember really. Like, you wouldn't think it but Turtles are actually great company. Good listeners!”

Not only do Timmy's cheeks glow when he's tipsy but the boy does _not_ shut up either. Not that Armie minds; he could listen to Timmy talk forever or that would at least be true if he could keep his mind out of the gutter long enough to hear Timmy finish a story.

“You're a good listener too.” Timmy continues “But I don't think I could get away with keeping you as a pet.”

 _'I wouldn't be so sure.'_ Armie thinks to himself as the younger man jabbers on, seemingly unaware of Armie's inability to stay out of his own head.

“What about you?” Timmy asks “any pets?”

“Well, I had a dog but he lives with my ex now.” Armie says. He knows how somber he sounds when he speaks about Archie, but he can't help it. Anybody would think Archie had died and wasn't just living comfortably with Elizabeth and whatshisname but the whole ordeal just makes him so _sad._

Timmy must sense it because his eyes soften at Armie's words and before Armie can even register what's happening Timmy is shuffling across the floor towards him and bundling Armie into a warm hug. “I'm _so_ sorry!” Timmy mumbles against Armie's shoulder and it's enough to give Armie goosebumps. “That must be so hard.” Timmy says, arms still coiled tightly around Armie's middle.

Armie suspects that if it wasn't for the blend of eggnog and brandy currently coursing through the younger man, he wouldn't be giving quite as compassionate a response to Armie's revelation as he is now. That's not to say Armie minds one bit. No, no, no... there are worse things in life than sitting here on the floor of an old soup kitchen in downtown New York with Timothée Chalamet wrapped around him.

When Timmy eventually pulls back and untangles himself from Armie, the tension in the air is thick; he's right there, their faces inches apart. The younger man completely crowds Armie's personal space and Armie wonders if Timmy feels it too, the undeniable tension. Is Timmy's heart practically pounding out of his chest? Does time feel as though it's running at half the speed? Is Timmy thinking about the implications of just saying _'fuck it'_ and surging forward to close the gap between them? Armie can’t deny that _he_ is and yet, he still can't bring himself to just fucking do it. _'Pussy.'_ Armie scolds himself.

Timmy clears his throat and averts his gaze, shuffling back a little; things are suddenly extremely awkward as Timmy mumbles. “So, we're all done here I think.” and hauls himself up from the floor.

“Yeah. Yeah, all done.” Armie agrees, fixing his stare on the now empty containers; finding it easier to look anywhere but at Timmy. “We should get going.”

 

They're bundled up and heading out the door in record time. It's as though they're suddenly afraid to be alone together, desperate to fall out into the streets and surround themselves with strangers; both much less likely to make fools of themselves while under the scrutinising gaze of unfamiliar faces. Timmy locks up behind them and they walk the familiar route to the subway. Their usual animated chatter is noticeably absent and Armie can't take the silence. He needs to say something, anything to break the tension. “Archie.” Armie blurts.

“Uh... no? I'm Timmy.” the younger man says, confusion etched across his face.

“No. Archie is my dog's name.” Armie laughs and bumps into Timmy's side playfully.

“Oh!” Timmy nods. “You don't- I mean. We don't have to talk about him if you don't want to to. It seems like it's kind of a hard subject for you.”

“I just miss him, that's all. It gets lonely.” Armie sighs and zips his coat up a little further.

“Well, I'm here.” Timmy smiles up at him “If you ever want to like talk or anything. I know you have your friend, Nick was it?”

“Yeah, Nick.”

“I know you have Nick...” Timmy continues “but sometimes it's nice to have a little backup, you know?”

“Thanks, Timmy. I really appreciate it.” and just like that, the tension is gone; completely evaporated into the cold, winter night. There's nothing but a comfortable warmth radiating between the two of them now and as they descend down into the subway, Armie can't seem to wipe the smile from his face.

 

It's just after 11:00pm when Armie reaches his apartment and for the first time this week, he's fully anticipating the gift he knows awaits him at his front door; he bounds giddily up the stairs to the fourth floor and rounds the corner with a smile that only grows when he reaches his door and finds that he's not to be disappointed. Another small package sits merrily on his welcome mat; same paper, same string and just as Armie expects when he flips the tag, same scrawled handwriting.

 

_'Armie,_

_on the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me...'_

 

Armie rips his gift open right there in the hallway, stuffing the discarded paper into his back pocket and snorting in amusement as he admires today's gift. Socks, 7 pairs. Each one with a day of the week hand-stitched into them; all the way through from Monday to Sunday and for some strange reason, Armie cannot wait to wear them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 7 already!  
> This whole thing is flying by so much quicker than I anticipated but I'm really enjoying every second of writing it.  
> All your wonderful comments and kudos make it such a labor of love and I can't thank you enough.  
> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter as much as the rest; I just couldn't resist fitting tipsy Tim in somewhere!  
> Thank you all for reading.
> 
> Look out for Chapter 8 tomorrow!  
> x


	9. On the eighth day of Christmas...

_On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me..._

 

Armie's phone chimes for a fifth time on his nightstand, loud and obnoxious. Today is his day off and he's been desperately trying to ignore whoever or whatever it is that continues to blow up his phone. With a groan and a stretch, Armie blindly reaches out for it. It's only as his eyes adjust to the brightness of his phone screen and fully come into focus that he sits bolt upright in bed;

**'Timothée Chalamet accepted your friend request. Write on Timothée's Timeline.'**

Armie's heart races as he taps the notification and is met with full access to Timmy's Facebook profile. More photos, more status updates, a couple of videos... _'Calm down you fucking stalker.'_

That's when messenger alerts him of a new message and Armie can't believe his luck; It's Timmy.

 

 **< Timothée Chalamet>** Whats up Hammer?

 

Finally got yourself a new phone, huh? **< Armie Hammer> **

 

 **< Timothée Chalamet> **Can only stay off the grid for so long before they find you

Who's they? **< Armie Hammer>**

 **< Timothée Chalamet> **AT&T obvs

Funny! ** <Armie Hammer>**

 **< Timothée Chalamet> **Do I detect sarcasm?

 

Maybe a little. **< Armie Hammer>**

 

 **< Timothée Chalamet> **You're not at Apostles today?

 

Nah, day off. You? **< Armie Hammer>**

 

 **< Timothée Chalamet> **Me too. We should hang?

 

Name the time and the place. I'm there. ** <Armie Hammer>**

 

 

They meet on 5th avenue and for once, the sun is warm on their skin. No threat of snow looming in the air, though still plenty heaped generously on the ground. Armie undoes his scarf a little as they stand side by side, staring out across the Rockefeller ice rink. “You sure about this?” Armie asks skeptically.

“Yeah. You don't want to?” Timmy eyes him with suspicion and then laughs “Wait... you're not _scared_ are you, Hammer?”

That's all it takes for Armie to grab Timmy by the sleeve and haul his ass inside to rent skates. “I'll show you scared, you little shit!” he says, determined to prove himself. If Armie's honest, he hasn't been ice skating since he was a child and even then he can only remember one occasion. His parents were often too busy to take him and by the time Armie was old enough to drive himself to the ice rink, he had lost interest.

As it turns out, the only thing Armie need be scared of is Timmy's flailing. The boy _cannot_ skate and Armie is beginning to question the nickname 'Pony' when 'Bambi' would be a much better fit.Armie winces as he watches Timmy land on his ass for the third time in five minutes; it's hard to watch and Armie surprises himself with just how steady he is for a 6''5 brute on two blades. When Timmy falters for a fourth time Armie is there, ready and waiting; he catches Timmy from behind, arms coiled around the shorter man's waist. “Alright there, champ?” he asks, as Timmy's legs fly out in front of him in his struggle to recover some kind of balance.

“Ugh, I'm fi- ugh, just... fuck!” Timmy huffs. When he finally regains composure, he brushes himself off and faux-glares at Armie. “I'm fine. Just a little rusty!”

“Mhmm. Usually a regular Tonya Harding, I'm sure.”

“You don't need to keep catching me, you know...” Timmy insists.

“I beg to differ. You already have one black eye, you don't need another.”

“Yeah, sure. Any excuse to get your hands on me.” Timmy is only teasing, Armie knows that but his stomach flips, Tim's words ringing truer than they should.

“You wish!” Armie says, releasing Timmy from his grip.

“Fuck you, Hammer!” Timmy yells over his shoulder as he skates off again on very unsteady feet.

_'I wish!'_

 

When they exit the ice Timmy insists they get hot chocolate from the vendor out front and sit by the Rockefeller tree. “It's my favourite tradition.” Timmy explains “My mom used to bring Pauline and me here every year. We'd get hot chocolate, watch everybody else skate because Pauline was always too scared and then we'd come see the tree all lit up in the dark and we'd get one wish each.”

“Just one?”

“Yep. Just one.” Timmy nods, taking a sip of his drink. “As good as I remember.” he hums in approval.

“You know it's probably not the same vendor as when you were a kid.” Armie laughs.

“Shut up, Captain Killjoy. Let's go see the tree.”

 

It's beautiful, Armie has to admit. Standing at least 70 feet tall, it looms over them, decorated with an assortment of twinkling lights and shining baubles and Armie can understand why Timmy is so fond it.

“It's better at night.” Timmy says but he's still smiling up at it with enormous affection. They sit in contemplative silence for a while, side by side and a little closer than necessary but if anybody asks, Armie will blame the cold. He thinks back to his first day at the kitchen, laying eyes on Timmy and feeling that first tell tale rush of pure affection and lust. Armie comes to the sudden realisation that he still has no idea why Timmy volunteers as much as he does; the boy has a knack for dodging questions and at the risk of spoiling a pleasant afternoon, he decides he'll ask again.

“So, you never did tell me...” Armie starts, hoping Timmy will take the bait.

“Hm? Tell you what?” Timmy appears dazed, apparently still semi-lost in his own bubble of festivity as he gazes up at the tree.

“Why you volunteer...”

Timmy smiles, coy and captivating. He suddenly shifts his focus from the tree to his shoes and mumbles a quiet “Does there need to be a reason?”

Armie laughs and elbows Tim gently in the side. “Yeah, there does. Come on, I told you mine, now you tell me yours.”

“Fair trade I guess.”

“Mhmm, so come on. What's your deal?” Armie prompts; he doesn't mean to rush Timmy's answer but _fuck_ , he's so close. He can't let it slip!

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you.” Timmy smiles.

“Try me...”

Timmy heaves a sigh and tilts his head back, eyes closed as though mentally preparing himself to tell his story. “Well, long story short; Holy Apostle's was my community service too.” Timmy cringes as he says it, side-glancing Armie briefly in an effort to gage his reaction.

Armie's mouth hangs open. “What? _You?_ no way!” He can't quite believe what he's hearing; what the fuck kind of trouble could sweet, adorable Timmy-Tim have gotten himself into?

“Yes, _me!_ ” Timmy rolls his eyes. “Don't act so surprised.”

“No, I mean... no offence but you don't really seem like the rebellious type.”

“You remember the police brutality protests back in 2014?” Timmy says, his lower lip now clamped between his teeth. Armie nods but says nothing, eager for Timmy to continue. “I was a part of those. Shit got real intense and I was arrested for vandalism and aggravated trespass.”

“Shit. Did you do it?”

“Yeah.” Timmy nods, his voice soft and timid.

“Why?”

“It was my first year of Art school. I was eighteen.” he shrugs. “Everybody does dumb shit when they're eighteen. I believed in what we were protesting and I guess I got carried away. Anyway, they gave me 5 months community service.”

“Why'd you stick around?” Armie asks. “You know, after...?”

“I told you. Those people are like family; I like being there. I did some stupid shit but I'm not a shitty person and believe it or not, I don't see helping people who need it as a form of punishment.”

“Wow.” Armie smiles. “I never would have guessed. Little Timmy-Tim, a menace to society.” he's teasing, hoping to coax a smile out of Timmy but he doesn't respond; he's staring back up at the tree and Armie feels that it's probably about time he changes the subject.

“Have you made your wish?” he asks.

Timmy shakes his head. “No. Have you?”

“I get one?”

“Everybody gets one.” Timmy shrugs and so Armie closes his eyes and tries not to peek as Timmy does the same. He takes a deep breath and as he makes his wish he exhales, enjoying the sudden feeling of serenity that passes through him. When he opens his eyes again, Timmy is staring at Armie now rather than the tree.

“What?” Armie asks “Do I have something on my face?”

“Just wondering what you wished for.”

“That would be telling.” Armie teases.

“You're not gonna tell me?”

“I'm not gonna tell you.” Armie confirms with a slight smile and turns to gaze back up at the tree. “You know, I haven't had a Christmas tree in three years now.” he says and Timmy looks positively mortified.

“What?! Three years? Armie, No!” Timmy gasps, his mouth hangs open in horror and he wastes no time in digging into his pocket to retrieve his phone. “This is unacceptable. We're getting you a tree!”

“Oh. _We_ are, huh?” Armie swears he can feel his heart skip a literal beat at Timmy's words. _'He said we. As in us, like two people, like a couple.'_

“Yeah. _We_ are. You have to have a tree, Armie. It's not Christmas without a tree.” Timmy thrusts his phone into Armie's hand “This place in SoHo is good. We'll go tomorrow after we're done at the kitchen. I mean- if you're free?”

“I can be free.” Armie says a little too eagerly. _'More time with Timmy? Yes fucking please.'_

 

They stroll idly down 5th avenue, admiring the festive window displays of each store as they pass. Their hands are warmed by the paper cups of hot chocolate being nursed along their way and when Timmy spots an old used book store, they just _have_ to go in. He's mumbling something under his breath as he digs through stacks of books vaguely labelled 'Classics' and Armie can't help but take in his surroundings; the smell of the book store is exactly the smell he had expected upon entering Holy Apostle's for the first time but now Armie realises that he wasn't right about a single thing that day.

He had expected 8 weeks of misery and painstaking exertion with no real reward at the end but no, he had never been more wrong about anything in his life because he was only a week in to his community service and here he stood with Timmy, the most breathtaking human Armie had ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on.

“Never had you down as a reader.” Armie says as he watches Timmy flip through a dusty, worn copy of Mary Shelley's 'Frankenstein.'

“I love to read.” Timmy says absent mindedly. “I just rarely find the time.”

“ _Just_ the classics or...?”

“Old classics, modern classics, autobiographies....” Timmy trails off and eyes Armie surreptitiously over another stack of books. “....erotica.” he smirks when Armie coughs a little, clearly surprised by Timmy's revelation. Who'd have thought Timmy would find such amusement in watching a man choke to death on his own saliva. ' _Fucker!'_

As Timmy returns to what Armie can only call book-diving, he takes the opportunity to browse the shelves himself. It's a strange little store, Armie thinks. The organisation of the literature, piled high on shelves leaves a lot to be desired but as he thumbs through a tired copy of who really knows what, something catches his eye on a shelf by the window; Armie's subtle as he approaches the book in question and picks it up to examine it thoroughly. He's already fully aware that what he holds in his hands is a fucking first edition of Charles Dickens' _'A Christmas Carol'._ The copy itself is time-worn. Bleached by the sun and a little damp stained toward the back but even with the slight damage it's an admirably well kept copy, all things considered. He thumbs through the book, admiring the Arthur Rackham illustrations that accompany the text and makes his decision there and then; this will be Timmy's Christmas present.

Armie has the book put to one side while Timmy is still busy rifling through stacks of literature and promises to return before Christmas to pick it up and pay the $318 tab. _'$318 on a guy I just met? Am I fucking insane?'_

By the time they say their goodbyes it's already getting dark, christmas lights strewn from building to building slowly flickering to life around them. Timmy declares he has somewhere he needs to be and leans up to pull Armie into a brief hug. “I've had a great time.” he says and Armie thinks that this sounds very much like the end of a date. _'Don't be a fucking idiot.'_ Armie mentally berates himself.

Timmy heads off downtown but not before Armie makes the younger man promise he'll be safe. “No more getting mugged!” Armie warns, pointing a stern finger in Timmy's direction as though the first robbery was at all by choice. Armie is still very much aware that he is not, nor has he ever been Timmy's protector but as Timmy swears to be as careful as possible in an attempt to ease Armie's mind, the older man can't help but feel that Timmy is coming around to the idea … just a little.

 

When Armie arrives home he's surprised to find that tonight's gift doesn't sit on his door mat as it usually would but is hung from his door handle in a brown paper bag. A tag dangles freely from the side of the bag and Armie resists the urge to peek inside before performing his nightly ritual of flipping the tag and reading the now highly predictable message.

 

_'Armie,_

_On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...'_

 

And when Armie finally allows himself a glance inside the bag he finds 8 packets of Peach flavoured candy. “Interesting choice, Santa.” he murmurs to himself, completely unable to abstain from ripping a bag open where he stands. “Hm. Pretty good.” he says, through a mouthful of sugar. With that, he steps into his apartment and kicks the door shut behind him, thoroughly love-sick and exhausted.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so sorry for the later than usual update today, guys!  
> It's been a hectic day. Really hope you all enjoyed chapter 8 and learning a little more about Timmy's life. 
> 
> Just a quick note on tomorrow's update; I'll be travelling for the majority of the day tomorrow (heading home to the parents' for Christmas) meaning 5 hours on a train with little to no Wi-Fi. So, tomorrow's update may be posted a little later than usual. I'm going to TRY and post chapter 9 in the morning before I leave but if I don't manage that then it will probably go up around 2 hours later than usual. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading.  
> Chapter 9 tomorrow, no matter how exhausted I am from travelling ;)  
> x


	10. On the ninth day of Christmas...

_On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me..._

 

Timmy has been counting down the hours since Armie walked through the door this morning; “A curly-headed ball of incurable excitement”, that's what Saoirse had labelled him when she'd caught Timmy bouncing on the balls of his feet behind the serving counter, humming along to the Christmas songs playing on the radio. Timmy can't help himself, his enthusiasm for Christmas tree shopping is second to none and combined with the fact he gets to enjoy one of his favourite festive activities with Armie by his side; fucking perfection!

“Is this about the tree?” Armie asks as he leans across the counter, seizing the opportunity for a quick break from setting tables.

“Maybe!” Timmy smiles. It's obvious Armie is right in his assumption when 2:00pm finally rolls around and Timmy is first on with his jacket; all but tossing his apron over his shoulder in his haste to bundle up and hit the road.

Armie had driven to Holy Apostle's this morning, fully anticipating the need for a vehicle if they were to collect a tree this afternoon. _“_ You really want to try get one of those big, green fuckers on the subway?” Armie had laughed when Timmy questioned him on the white Chevy parked out front.

They drive the short distance to SoHo and Timmy revels in the rare luxury of riding in a heated car rather than a crowded train carriage. When they pull into the parking lot of 'Sal's Tree Emporium', Armie has to remind Timmy to be careful when the younger man practically falls out of the car, excited to get out and admire the lineup of trees. “Armie, look at this one!” Timmy yells, from somewhere up ahead and all Armie can do is chuckle.

“It's like shopping with a child.” Armie teases, finally catching up with Timmy who's marvelling at a tree that quite frankly, Armie finds lacklustre at best. “Come on, Timmy... we can do better than this.”

Timmy looks appalled at Armie's words, hand clutching his chest in a dramatic effort to make Armie feel bad; it doesn't work. Armie just scoffs and nudges Timmy along to look at a few more trees. Armie expects a little more protest from Timmy but is surprised when instead, all he receives is Timmy's arm, linked with his own as he hangs from Armie's elbow.

“What?” Timmy says nonchalantly when he catches Armie's questioning gaze. “I'm cold.” he shrugs and nestles in closer; Armie makes a mental note to hide Timmy's jacket and scarf in future.

 

It takes them around an hour and a half to find the perfect tree and another fifteen minutes for Armie to convince Timmy to leave the trees alone and go wait in the car while he pays. “Your boyfriend sure loves Christmas, huh?” a guy who Armie can only assume is _the_ Sal of 'Sal's tree emporium' says as Armie enters his pin to pay for the tree. The tree that Timmy is now stood by the car currently admiring all over again.

“Oh. He's not-” Armie begins to say but then something in his mind takes over and he thinks _'Fuck it. Where's the harm?'_ “I mean, yeah. Yeah he does.” Armie smiles, more to himself than anybody else. He can allow himself this one little gift; a fleeting feel of what it would be like to call Timmy his.

 

The drive back to Harlem is filled with talk of what a traditional Chalamet Christmas looks like and Armie learns more about Timmy's family in the 40 minutes it takes them to get back to Armie's apartment than he has in the entire 10 days he's actually known Timmy. His sister, it turns out is vegetarian which when it comes to catering Christmas lunch, stresses his mother out to no end. “And my dad, he's French, right? So he was like really into teaching us all these French Christmas traditions when we were kids.” Timmy explains on the car ride home. He leans in and warms his hands against Armie's car radiator.

“Like what?” Armie asks, more than a little intrigued.

“Okay, so like me and my sister would leave our shoes by the fire place when we were kids so that when _Père Noël_ visited in the night he could leave presents in them for us.”

“In your shoes?” Armie cocks an eyebrow and smirks across at Timmy who just nods, equally amused.

“You know most kids just had stockings to leave presents in, right? Not an entire fucking shoe.” Armie's laughing and it's not long before Timmy joins in too, unable to stop himself as the absurdity of what he's saying sinks in and he recalls memories of small shoes, filled with chocolate coins and trinkets.

Timmy's still smiling when they eventually pull up outside Armie's building but that soon changes when he realises that he has to help unload the tree and carry it four floors to Armie's apartment. “Elevator's bust.” Armie explains with a grunt as he adjusts his grip on the trunk of the tree.

“So is my back!” Timmy complains from somewhere behind the mass of pine greenery.

“Don't be a baby. Lift with your knees!”

It doesn't take them as long as Armie had anticipated to haul an entire christmas tree up four flights of stairs but as they arrive at his door, Armie spots it... another gift. Armie lowers himself as steadily as he can, keeping a solid grip on the tree and swipes the gift from the doormat on his way inside.

Armie feels somewhat guilty as he quickly stuffs today's package into a kitchen draw. It's not that he's ungrateful, far from it really. It's just that he doesn't want Timmy to get the wrong idea and think that he's not available because he is; _God is he available!_

“I don't really have much to decorate it with.” Armie confesses once the tree is upright and standing proud in the corner of his living room. “Just a few things my ex left behind when she....” he trails off; surprised at how hard it is to talk about her even now, two and a half years down the line.

Timmy senses the change in Armie's tone and springs in to action, fiercely determined not to let the day become about anything other than the two of them enjoying themselves. “Well, you teach first grade, right?” Timmy says. Armie just nods, not quite sure where Timmy is going with this.

“So you must have a crap ton of coloured paper around here?”

“Well, yeah but-”

“So we'll make paper chains and those paper snowflake things and it'll be fun!” Timmy declares. “Go get your paper!”

Armie doesn't even question him, just rushes to his closet and pulls out a box full of his work supplies. _'Coloured paper, glue sticks, safety scissors, glitter... glitter? Jesus, what have I become?'_ and when he returns to dump it all down in a heap in front of Timmy who sits cross-legged on Armie's living room floor, the younger man just beams up at him and Armie decidedly concurs with Saoirse's eternal youth theory. Armie makes them both huge, steaming mugs of coffee using the Italian roast he'd been gifted from his personal secret Santa and as they both settle down and get to work on their makeshift tree décor, Timmy fires up Spotify on his phone and the sound of Dean Martin's 'Baby it's cold outside' fills the room.

They work in moderate silence, only speaking over the music to ask for the scissors or the glue or in Timmy's case; more glitter but Armie watches Timmy out of the corner of his eye and thinks that Timmy's concentration face is possibly the cutest thing he's ever seen. Brow furrowed, eye's narrowed and his tongue poking out ever so slightly from the corner of his mouth.

 

“I have to say...” Armie starts as they finish draping the paper chain decorations around the tree “this is probably the ugliest fucking tree I've ever seen.”

“Yup!” Timmy nods. “Pretty fuckin' ugly... I kind of love it though?”

“Me too.” Armie grins. “It's kitsch.”

“Yeah, kitsch. Sure, let's go with that.” Timmy can't help himself and erupts with laughter. The tree is covered in garish, looping chains of paper from top to bottom, accompanied by the worst attempts at paper snowflakes either of them have ever seen and as for the star on top; well... Timmy had crafted it from aluminium foil. “Not my greatest work of art.” he had admitted when they'd plonked it awkwardly on top of the tree and stepped back to admire it.

They're both doubled over, holding on to one another and laughing harder than either of them have laughed in the longest time. Armie wonders if it would be like this all the time. If Timmy was his, would they always be this happy? This care free and ridiculous? He hopes so.

When they eventually slump down onto Armie's ratty old couch, Timmy can't help but lean into Armie's side; he silently blames the dip of the cushions rather than his own heart, overflowing with desire.

Armie's head lolls to the right as he smiles in Timmy's direction. “Thank you.” Armie sighs, happy and content.

“For what?” Timmy asks, confusion etched across his face.

“Today. Just... thank you. You have no idea what it's meant to me.”

“I think I do.” Timmy finds himself saying, his filter apparently vanishing completely as he catches Armie's gaze and slowly leans in to bridge the gap between them. Their eyes locked and breathing far too unsteady, Armie leans in too. Their noses brush and Armie wonders what the fuck that noise is...

Timmy leaps from his seat, unnecessarily panicked as his phone begins to vibrate furiously in his pocket. “Fuck!” he mutters, pulling out his phone and groaning as he sees his sister's name flash across the screen. “I'm sorry.” he apologises. “I have to take this, it's my family; they're trying to Facetime.”

“No, no. That's fine. Don't even- I mean... do you want to use the bedroom? To to like talk to them I mean, not-”

“No, it's fine. I should get going anyway. See you tomorrow though?” Timmy asks and he's practically out the door already, thumb poised over the answer button on his phone and his jacket hanging from one arm. 

“Yeah. Tomorrow.” Armie says and Timmy just smiles on his way out of the door.

“Hey, guys! What's up?” is the last thing Armie hears Timmy say as the door closes behind him, leaving Armie undeniably frustrated in more ways than one. With an agonising groan, Armie flops back down onto his couch and buries his head in his hands. He had been so fucking close to kissing him, _so_ close. Fucking phones and Facetime and families. Fucking _fuck!_

Armie heaves himself back up and heads to the kitchen, intent on drowning his sorrows with whatever he can find; he's sure he has a beer or two left from his secret admirer. He's rifling through the fridge when it dawns on him; he still hasn't opened his gift from earlier. “No time like the _present._ ” Armie mumbles and allows himself a small laugh at his own, ridiculous pun as he reaches into his kitchen draw and pulls out his gift.

True to tradition, Armie checks the tag first;

 

_'Armie,_

_On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...'_

 

Today's gift is smaller than usual and when Armie tears into the paper he understands why; it's a small, black, moleskin sketch book. A6 in size if Armie had to guess and when he opens it up to flick through the pages he's astounded by what he finds. The first nine pages are the only ones used, filled with the most impressive hardline sketches Armie has ever seen; they're beautiful, truly stunning and what overwhelms Armie more than anything else is that these sketches, these fantastic, unbelievable sketches are all of him; all fucking nine of them. His face, his eyes, his hands, all of him; like snippets from his life that he gets to hold on to forever... his own eternal youth.

That's when he thinks of Timmy because not only does Timmy posses his own eternal youth but Timmy is also an artist. Could it be Timmy sending him these small tokens of affection? He dares to wonder. “Like I'd ever get that fucking lucky.” he scoffs after a moment's contemplation; Timmy may be an artist but so are a million other people in NYC.

Armie takes his gift to bed with him that night, laying between cold sheets and tracing the lines of each, individual sketch. Armie knew three things of his admirer now; they were stealthy as fuck, had impeccable taste in winter wear and they were an incredible artist. Armie drifts off to sleep with the book in his hand and thoughts of Timmy in his head.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is was such a nice, fun chapter to write. It's probably one of my favourites so far!  
> I really hope you enjoyed reading this one as much as I enjoyed writing it and I'd just like to apologise for the delay in posting today.  
> Thank you all so much for your lovely comments on the last chapter, they're such a joy to read.
> 
> Anyway, I'll be back tomorrow with chapter 10!   
> x


	11. On the tenth day of Christmas...

“Today's the big day, Lads!” Saoirse says, clapping both Armie and Timmy on the shoulder. This is it, their busiest day of the year; the community Christmas lunch. The entire interior of Holy Apostle's is decorated within an inch of it's life. Garlands and streamers drape from the ceiling while the windows are lined with tinsel and a tree stands tall and twinkling in the corner and if Saoirse thinks Armie hasn't noticed the sprigs of mistletoe strategically hung around the room she's wrong; dead fucking wrong!

Armie doesn't know whether to laugh or cry when he narrowly avoids catching Timmy beneath a sprig that hangs prominently above the front doors. Timmy looks flustered and gnaws on his lower lip when Saoirse smirks and informs them “One step closer and you boys would have been in trouble.” before giving them a nod to unlock the doors. Armie watches in awe as people slowly begin to file inside, seeking warmth from the callous December weather. Armie had been warned that today would be busy but true to form, he had greatly underestimated the sheer volume of people who were in need of help over the holiday season. Armie's heart aches for the woman in the corner with her two children held closely by her side; he wonders where they'll be on Christmas Day and whether her children will be fortunate enough to receive any gifts. He's still standing by the door, quiet and contemplative much like he had been on his first day when he hears Timmy's speak over his shoulder.

“Don't pity them.” Timmy says with a soft smile. “They're not here for that. These people are so much stronger than they're given credit for.” Armie doesn't answer, doesn't even shift his gaze; just looks out across the crowded hall of people while Timmy continues to speak. “They're strong because they're here. Despite their struggle, whatever it may be; they're here. While most of us would give up, they're fighting their corner, for themselves or their families. They're seeking help when they need it and coming out stronger for it every time. Out there, on the streets they're strangers but in here they're a community. So, talk to them, laugh with them, treat them the way you'd treat anybody else... just don't pity them.”

“Yeah.” Armie croaks, his eyes suddenly sting and theres a lump in his throat that definitely hadn't been there before Timmy had started speaking. He rubs his hand across his face and blinks away the tears threatening to spill. _'Pull it together!'_ he tells himself before clearing his throat to speak. “Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry I-”

“No.” Timmy interrupts. “Don't be. You're just being empathetic, that's a good thing. Anyway, Come on.” Timmy gives Armie a gentle shove. “Sersh needs us to serve.”

 

They spend the majority of their morning and early afternoon behind the counter, dishing out food that Armie has to admit smells fucking incredible; his and Timmy's usual banter lightening the mood considerably from their earlier conversation. A conversation that Armie thinks must have struck a cord within him somewhere because since hearing Timmy talk so passionately about the patrons of Holy Apostle's, Armie finds himself making a bigger effort to speak to the people he serves; asking about their morning and their plans for the rest of the day but Armie finds himself an awkward, stuttering mess when one lady tells him that she'll be waiting for him under the mistletoe if he wants to talk more later. Timmy witnesses the entire interaction and cackles, fucking _cackles_ at Armie's distress!

“Not gonna take her up on her offer?” Timmy asks with a smirk once she's fully out of ear-shot.

“Nah. Not my type.” Armie shrugs.

“Oh. You have a _type_?” Timmy's tone is teasing but curiosity seeps through his words as he looks toward Armie expectantly.

“I like brunettes.” Armie says simply as he passes a full plate back across the counter with a smile. “Tall brunettes to be more specific. Curls and good bone structure. Green eyes.” Armie doesn't know where this sudden rush of courage is coming from but he likes the way Timmy blushes.

“You want to grab lunch now?” Timmy mumbles shyly, still unable to meet Armie's gaze. Armie nods and they down tools, wasting no time in piling their plates with food before searching for a table amongst the sea of people. Their usual table is occupied and so Armie grabs the first vacant space he lays eyes on.

“Over here!” Armie says, tugging Timmy along by his sleeve and it's not until they're seated and lost deep in conversation that Saoirse approaches, coming to lean across the table; a smug, self-satisfied grin plastered across her face. “It _is_ tradition, you know.” she says.

“What is?” Timmy asks, brow furrowed in confusion as he glances around the room. Saoirse doesn't even respond, just glances above them toward the ceiling.

Both Timmy and Armie follow her gaze and _'Fuck. Fucking fuckity fuck fuck fuck!'_ Armie groans inwardly at the sight of the mistletoe. How had he missed that?

“So?” Saoirse chimes, arms folded in front of her impatiently.

“We- I mean... we don't have to if you-” Timmy starts. He's nervous and uncomfortable; Armie can tell by the way the younger man worries his lower lip between his teeth, looking anywhere but at Armie.

“No, it's okay. It's just a kiss, right?” Armie says. He wants to sound casual, as though this whole thing means nothing but the way his heart thunders against his chest makes it very difficult for him to deliver the words with any kind of conviction.

“Right.” Timmy agrees and Armie takes a deep breath in an attempt to steady his nerves. This hadn't been the way Armie had imagined their first kiss; in a crowded room, suddenly much too loud with a fiery, Irish blonde looming over them expectantly.

It's as Armie leans in to close the distance between he and Timmy that a young girl, no older than 4 comes barreling past them with arms outstretched and knocks an entire cup of water from the table and into Timmy's lap. “Fuck!” Timmy yelps as he leaps from his seat and quickly begins trying to pat himself dry.

Saoirse groans in frustration and rolls her eyes “I'll get paper towels.” she huffs and turns on her heel to walk away, thoroughly disappointed.

 

They spend the rest of the afternoon desperately trying to avoid Saoirse's cunning traps of mistletoe, although a small part of Armie wonders what it would have felt like to have pressed his lips against Timmy's, even just for the briefest of moments.

“You can clock out now, Hammer.” Saoirse calls from across the room as she wipes down another table. It's nearing 4pm and slowly but surely, the kitchen is already much clearer, leaving only a hand full of patrons still nestled happily at tables as they talk animatedly amongst themselves.

As much as Armie hates to say goodbye to Timmy; this afternoon he has somewhere important to be and so he has Saoirse sign his time sheet and shrugs on his coat, heading out of the door with no more than a hurried “Later!” over his shoulder. In fact, Armie is so eager in his haste to leave that Timmy doesn't even get the chance to let Armie know he wont be there tomorrow.

 

Armie arrives at the used book store on 5th Avenue with minutes to spare before closing. He hurries through the doors and the warmth that greets him makes his face feel as though it's physically thawing. _'Maybe I wont lose my nose to frostbite after all.'_ he thinks as he makes his way to the front of the store in search of a cashier. $318 is a lot of fucking money for a book; a book that Armie has no intention of keeping for that matter but when he thinks about the joy he knows it'll bring Tim he finds himself practically throwing his money across the counter as the older gentleman slips the worn, frayed novel into a bag.

He clutches the bag with a vice-like grip the entire way home; not because of the monetary value of the item inside but because this book is Timmy's and that alone makes it special. Armie can't remember the last time he had been so excited to give somebody a gift. Hell, Armie can't even remember the last time he put this much _thought_ into a gift for somebody. Liz was always easy; jewellery or shoes. His mother preferred handbags and hats, something she could show off at Sunday service and his father was a scotch man, anything aged and expensive. All simple, easy but thoughtless gestures. Even his brother, Viktor had become spectacularly difficult to buy for over the years; what do you buy a man who already has an obscene amount of money?

 

When Armie arrives home and bounds up the stairs and along the hallway to his apartment he's more than a little surprised (and dare he say disappointed?) to find no gift awaiting him today. As much as he had anticipated his mystery gift-giver eventually getting bored, it still stings a little. He tries not to think on the issue too much as he steps into his apartment and slams the door behind him. He heads straight for the bedroom in search of wrapping paper, rifling through his closet until he emerges victorious. _'Hmm... pink snowflakes? Too much?'_ he wonders. The paper had belonged to Liz, one of the few things she'd left behind after moving out; Armie vaguely remembers her using it to wrap her niece's Christmas presents and for a brief moment he considers maybe _not_ using paper meant for an 8 year old but then, this is Timmy and Armie can somehow see Timmy quite liking pink snowflakes. So, with a shrug of his shoulders and his mind made up, Armie gets to work.

Now, Armie is well aware that his gift-wrapping skills leave a lot to be desired but as he sits back and admires his handy work he can't help but feel a small sense of accomplishment. It's only as Armie is contemplating what he should write on the gift tag ' _from Armie? Love Armie? No, that's way too much. What are you, a psycho?'_ that he hears someone outside of his front door; Armie isn't expecting visitors and whoever is out there hasn't yet knocked. _'Could it be?'_ he wonders as he vaults from his spot on the floor and heads straight for the door.

When he throws it open, his sudden burst of excitement evaporates as he's met with nothing but a quiet, empty hallway. _'Fuck!'_ he thinks but when he looks down, Armie realises that the hallway isn't _entirely_ empty because right there, laying by his feet is another package; same brown paper, same white string and as always same hastily written gift tag. Armie wastes no time in scooping the gift from the ground and racing back into his apartment; whoever was leaving these gifts would be out on the street by now and as Armie throws open his living room window to fully fucking rubber-neck as far down the block as he possibly can, he's left disappointed once again. He doesn't recognise a single face, not one person who would waste their time leaving him thoughtful presents.

With a heavy sigh, he slams his window closed and returns to his place on the floor. He sits cross-legged, package in hand and inspects the tag as he does every day.

 

'Armie,

On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...'

 

Today's gift is much smaller than usual. Much thinner too, Armie notes and as he tears into the paper he understands why... it's an envelope. _'Interesting...'_ he thinks to himself, sparing no time as he eagerly rips open the small, white envelope. He laughs whole-heartedly when he finally tips the contents into his lap; gift cards. 10 individual gift cards all for a $1 each and as luck would have it, all for his favourite stationary store, Paperchase; _'A teacher's wet dream!'_ as Armie liked to call it.

He tucks the gift cards into his wallet with a smile and tidies away the discarded wrapping paper before grabbing Timmy's questionably wrapped present and placing it on his kitchen counter. He leaves it by the coffee pot in an effort to remember it in the morning. Armie is buzzing with an unusual mix of excitement and anxiety over the thought of giving Timmy his Christmas present but as he pulls younger man's Facebook profile up on his phone _again_ and admires his photo, there's not a doubt in Armie's mind that Timmy will love his gift.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I want to say thank you to each and every one of you for sticking with this fic and the ridiculous slow-burn. Not only that but thank you all for your comments, the kudos and even just for checking in and reading it. I appreciate you all so, so much!   
> It's been forever since I've written anything more than just a one-shot (and even those are few and far between these days) so for this fic to get such a tremendous reception really does mean the world.   
> I hope you enjoyed chapter 10, I promise things will start to speed up a little more soon!   
> I'll be back tomorrow with chapter 11,  
> Much love & Merry Christmas x


	12. On the eleventh day of Christmas...

_On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me..._

 

For the first time in 4 years, Armie is out of bed before 11:00am on a Christmas Eve. He wakes to the sound of his radio alarm clock blaring Mariah Carey and heaves himself up and into the shower with little to no fuss. On any other day Armie would mourn the loss of those extra hours nestled snug beneath his duvet but today he's buzzing with excitement; the anticipation of giving Timmy his gift too much to bear.

As he washes the suds of shampoo from his hair, he tries to recall the last time he'd wanted somebody this bad. The last time he'd gone out of his way just to see them smile or hear them laugh. When had he last cared about someone enough to spend his afternoons ice skating, tree shopping and making tacky paper decorations? Short answer; never. Hell, he had even given up his evening to sit on a cold, hard tiled floor in a soup kitchen and count stock just to make Timmy happy. Armie had cared about his past lovers, of course; he isn't heartless but _this,_ what he feels for Timmy, well... it's something else entirely.

With Timmy's gift in one hand and his coffee in the other, Armie is on his way. The streets of Manhattan are white-over and for once Armie lets himself enjoy the journey from Harlem to Hell's Kitchen; even against the bustle of frenzied last minute shoppers, Armie is hard pushed to find anything that could ruin his mood. Today he gets to make Timmy smile and maybe, just _maybe_ he'll even get a hug for his efforts.

 

When Armie arrives at Holy Apostle's he's surprised to find Saoirse is the only one there, already donning her apron and hairnet with an enthusiastic smile spread across her face as she hums along to Christmas songs on the radio. “Someone's early!” she says, reaching across the counter to turn down her music.

“Is Timmy around?” Armie asks, his eagerness getting the better of him as he scans the empty room, hoping that a mop of brown curls will appear from somewhere in the back.

“Good morning to you too, Armie.” Saoirse laughs and rolls her eyes. She's not stupid and Armie knows she knows and he's mildly surprised to find that he doesn't actually care; today isn't about that. Today is about one simple gesture and seeing Timmy's face light up. That's all Armie wants.

“Is he?”

“He's not volunteering today. You didn't know?” She seems surprised, as though she had expected Armie to keep a full Timmy-itinerary.

_'You've done enough stalking. Can you really blame her?'_ he thinks to himself as he takes a seat at one of the tables, suddenly feeling somewhat crestfallen. He had tried here, he had really fucking tried and still he'd managed to fuck it up. How had he not known? Why hadn't Timmy mentioned it? Armie contemplates pulling up Facebook and messaging Timmy but if he had wanted Armie to know his business, he'd have told him... wouldn't he? Armie groans and lets his head drop to the table with a loud thud.

“Alright, out with it.” Saoirse tuts, coming to sit opposite him. She gives his leg a firm kick under the table and when Armie doesn't respond she heaves an impatient sigh. “Come on, I haven't got all day!”

Armie lifts his head and winces when he catches the pity in her eyes. “I just wanted to give him this.” Armie groans, shoving the shoddily wrapped book across the table at her.

“Just give it to him after Christmas. What's the big deal?”

“You don't get it.” Armie is aware he sounds like a petulant teenager but she doesn't; she just doesn't get it. She couldn't possibly!

“So then tell me?” She says, reaching across the table to rest a comforting hand against his arm.

“He's spending Christmas alone for the first time this year and that fucking sucks; I do it every year. I just figured maybe this would... I dunno, cheer him up or something?” Armie shrugs.

“What is it?” she asks, picking up the gift and turning it over in her hands, examining the wrapping.

“A book.”

“A book? What kind?”

“A Christmas carol.” Armie says and wastes no time in bringing up a photo on his phone. He had snapped a picture of it before wrapping and when he thrusts his phone at Saoirse he can see the look of uncertainty on her face.

“It's a bit mouldy looking, Armie.” she says, zooming in on the image.

“It's a first edition.”

“Aren't those like _really_ expensive?”

“This one was $318 so not as expensive as some really.” Armie explains, taking his phone back and shoving it into his pocket.

“You spent $318 on Timmy just to cheer him up?” Saoirse suddenly looks enlightened, as though everything has finally fallen into place and she understands something that until now had been a complete fucking mystery.

Armie doesn't answer, just shrugs and then thinks of Timmy; fucker is always shrugging. That's been the trouble lately; _everything_ makes him think of Timmy.

“I can't believe I didn't see it before now.” Saoirse is saying, standing from her seat and pacing the floor with a hand pressed to her forehead in frustration.

“See what?” Armie mumbles. He's paying very little attention really, more invested in the pooling pit of despair in his stomach. Disappointment has never stung quite like this before.

“Listen, Armie.” Saoirse says as he digs into the pocket of her apron and pulls out a note pad and pen. “I'm going to give you an address, okay?”

“An address?” Armie raises an eyebrow in question and watches as she jots down the information.

“It's an exhibition space in Chelsea. Timmy has an exhibition later, that's why he's not here; he's setting up for tonight but I just _really_ think you should see his show.”

“Oh.” and now that Armie thinks, Timmy had kind of, maybe, definitely mentioned that he had an exhibition tonight. How the fuck had he forgotten? “Fuck. Yeah... he might have mentioned that.” Armie confesses as he stands and grabs Timmy's gift from the table. When Saoirse tears the paper from her pad and slides it across the table to him he slips it into his pocket with haste and makes to leave. He's half way through the front door when he hears her call out from behind him.

“Wait!”

“What? What's up?” Armie's eager to leave and inwardly groans as he finds himself stalled by the doors.

“It's a ticketed event, invite only. You wont get in without one.” She explains as she makes her way toward the back of the room and begins searching through her bag.

“How the fuck do I get one of those?” _'Christ, does everything in life really have to be this difficult?'_

“Here.” Saoirse says, pulling a ticket from her purse. “Take mine. Something tells me he'd rather have you there anyway.” she smirks, handing over the ticket and fixing Armie with a knowing look.

“What do you mean?”

“God!” Saoirse groans, head thrown back and eyes screwed shut. “The pair of you are excruciating; Go. Just go. Find out for yourself!” and with that she shoos Armie out of the building and back out onto the street where if he's completely honest, he feels more than a little lost. What now? He didn't particularly come prepared with a plan B. His plan A was pretty solid, he had thought. Hand Timmy the book, say “Merry Christmas.” and then hope for a hug. What could possibly go wrong? _'A-fucking-lot apparently.'_

Armie stands out on the side walk and reaches into his pocket to inspect the piece of paper Saoirse had given him.

 

Rogue Space

Chelsea

508 W 26th St

7:00PM

 

It's only just approaching 11:00am when Armie checks his phone for the time. “Eight hours.” he mutters to himself and pulls his scarf a little tighter “I can work with that.” He makes his way back to the subway and considers what his next plan of action should be.

 

By the time he reaches his apartment he's already wasted an hour of his day on train delays and ice avoidance. He shucks the snow from his boots against the concrete steps of his building and then hurries inside; it's not that he doesn't have time to take it easy but his plans have changed considerably and Armie wants to look his absolute best for Timmy's exhibition.

Armie takes the stairs two at a time, bounding up them and along the hallway toward his apartment. He comes to a halt outside his door and immediately recognises the brown paper package waiting for him; small, flat, perfectly square and as always, tied up with string. Armie carries the package into his apartment and sets it down on the counter along with Timmy's book.

A stickler for tradition, Armie flips the tag and reads.

 

_'Armie,_

_On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me...'_

 

He rips into the paper with irrefutable enthusiasm and is surprised to find that today's gift is a hand decorated mix CD. The case has Armie's name penned across it in a script far more impressive than what has been scribbled on the gift tags each day. He turns the case in search of track listings and finds that there are 11 songs in total; Armie is impressed with his secret Santa's level of creativity and hums in approval when he slips the disc into his blu-ray player and is met with the first few notes of a song he instantly recognises. He rarely meets other psychedelic furs fans and so when 'Love My Way' begins to play, he can't help but smile. _'You have potential, Santa. Maybe we've got something after all.'_ he thinks.

He spends his afternoon prepping lunch and himself all while the mix CD sitting in the blu-ray player provides a soundtrack to his day. He trims his hair, shaves, showers again and by 5:30pm he's changed his clothes a grand total of 3 times. Who the fuck had bought him that turtleneck and why had he thought it would ever be a good idea to wear it? “I look like a fucking Bond villain!” he had groaned before pulling it back over his head and throwing it directly into the waste paper basket by his bed.

He eventually settles on what he likes to call his 'PTA outfit.' Form-fitting navy slacks, a white button down shirt and a slim charcoal tie. He rolls up his sleeves, throws on his best black leather belt and gives himself a once-over in the mirror.

By the time Armie is grabbing his wallet, phone and Timmy's gift to head out the door, it's already 6:50pm. He hadn't meant for time to get away from him and as he rushes out into the street he almost slips on a patch of ice. He catches himself just in time and decides that hailing a cab would be a much safer option than figure skating his way to the subway. It's over a half hour of awkward small talk with the cab driver as he makes his way from Harlem to Chelsea and while Armie feels a little rude, he can't bring himself to focus on any of what the driver is saying; he's far too nervous. Lost in his own head again, thinking only of Timmy.

 

When they eventually pull up outside Rogue Space, Armie shoves a twenty through the glass and tells the driver to keep the change. The gallery looks to be a modest size from the outside. It boasts a glass front and Armie is able to see all the way in. Upon closer inspection he realises that the space is actually deceptively large, stretching further and further back until it becomes difficult to know where the fuck the place ends. It looks full to the rafters already and at least 30 people line the pavement waiting for entry. Armie begins to wonder whether he has the right address. Are all these people here for Timmy?

He bites the bullet and approaches a young man waiting in line; the kid looks around Timmy's age, tall, lanky and dressed like a pretentious hipster dick-bag. “Hey, is this Timmy's art show?” Armie asks, tapping the guy on the shoulder. He turns to face Armie and rolls his eyes.

“Timmy?” he scoffs. “You mean Timothée Chalamet?” _'Wow. Art nerds are fucking obnoxious.'_ Armie thinks but only nods in response.

“Obviously. We don't wait in line for just anybody” the kid says, his tone is sharp and mocking and Armie wants to ring his fucking neck.

“Do you know him?” Armie asks. He truly pities Timmy if this is the company he keeps outside of his volunteer work.

The kids rolls his eyes and sighs. Armie can tell he's bored of answering his apparently frustratingly unreasonable questions. “Anybody who matters knows Timothée Chalamet.” he explains. “He's _the_ up and coming artist right now. He's going to be huge. Aesthetica Magazine are calling him the next Warhol.”

“Ha. I fucking hope not. Guy was a hack!” one of Dick-bag's friends mutters from behind him.

 

Armie can't quite believe what he's hearing. Why hadn't Timmy mentioned he was hot-shit on the New York art scene? _'Fucker's just full of secrets apparently.'_ He thinks and turns his attention to the guy working the door. It takes a flash of his ticket and $50 for Armie to cut the line and breeze inside ahead of Dick-bag and co. He wanders aimlessly for a while, book in hand as he peers over heads in hopes of catching a glimpse of Timothée Chalamet; artist extraordinaire! _'Where the fuck is he?'_ Armie wonders, eyes roaming the crowd of people in front of him. _'Do artists not attend their own fucking showings anymore or something?'_

It's only as he reaches the back of the room and pauses to settle his thoughts, really allows himself to stop and take in his surroundings that he sees it; a series of beautiful, hardline sketches displayed along the back wall. His chest suddenly feels far too tight and for the briefest of moments Armie thinks he might _actually_ throw up; he recognises those sketches, those lines, that ink. Fuck, he recognises that face because they're all of him, every last one. Armie had thought the sketches he had been gifted were astounding but _these..._ He doesn't know when Timmy would have had the chance to study him so closely _'Are these all from memory?'_ he wonders because Armie doesn't recall ever seeing Timmy with a sketchbook and when he steps forward to inspect the small, hand-written description beneath the display he thinks he might cry.

 

Apostle

People of New York series

2018

Carbon ink on Hot-Press paper

[8x10 in]

 

Armie would know that hand writing anywhere by now, he's spent the last eleven days trying to figure out who the fuck it belonged to and now here he is, in a room full of strangers about to cry his fucking eyes out because apparently it had been Timmy all along. He takes a deep breath to steady the thunder of his heart and blinks away the threat of tears. Taking another glance around the room he suddenly hears him; that unmistakable excitable laugh, the same one he had erupted into when Armie had been propositioned by a patron at the serving counter.

Apparently, Armie's legs are working faster than his brain tonight because before he knows what's happening he's across the room, excusing himself as he squeezes by large groups of clearly very well to-do critics and buyers. He comes to stand behind Timmy who Armie has to admit looks fucking spectacular in his black floral suit and... _'are those Louboutins?'_

Tim chats animatedly with a group of people, champagne in hand when Armie clears his throat and cuts him off. Armie's not entirely sure whether it's a look of surprise or sheer horror on Timmy's face when he turns to find Armie standing behind him, gift clutched to his chest; either way, Armie knows he can't lose his nerve, not now! “Armie... what- uh. How did you-”

“Saoirse.” Armie says, knowing that's all the explanation needed.

Timmy rolls his eyes and huffs a small, nervous laugh. “Saoirse. Of course it was.” he says. “Have you um...” Tim trails off and Armie watches as his eyes flicker to the corner of the room where he knows the display of sketches hang. “Have you had time to look around?”

“Yeah.” Armie nods. “You're _really_ fucking talented, Timmy.”

“Did you see-”

“I saw.” Armie says and he can't believe they're having this conversation in a room full of strangers. He studies Tim's face for any sign of panic or regret but all he finds is a soft, sad smile. “I'm sorry.” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I feel so stupid. I just-”

“No. No, Timmy; you don't have to explain yourself.” Armie cuts in. “I just wanted to give you this...” Armie holds out the book, still wrapped in pink snowflake paper and when he glances down to watch Timmy take it from him, he realises his hands are shaking. _'Now or never.'_ Armie thinks.

He takes a deep breath and reaches out to cup Timmy's jaw. “and this.” he finishes, leaning down to finally, fucking _finally_ bridge the gap between them. He presses a soft, determined kiss to Timmy's lips and catches himself smiling when Timmy sighs against his mouth. Armie feels dizzy with excitement and happiness. His stomach is doing somersaults and if Timmy's arms draping themselves around his neck are any indication, Armie would say he feels the same way too.

People are staring; Armie can feels at least a dozen eyes on them. He knows he should stop, should pull back and let Timmy go while he still has some professional credibility left but _fuck_ if letting go of this boy isn't the hardest thing Armie has ever had to do.

When Armie does eventually find the strength to stop kissing Timmy, he's grinning so hard he thinks his face might crack. “I've wanted to do that for the longest time.” he confesses.

“Want to get out of here?” Timmy asks. He doesn't even wait for a response, just takes Armie's hand and leads them out into the street where they hail a cab and disappear into the night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so this chapter was an absolute beast. I try to average around 5 pages per chapter and this one somehow turned into 8. I got a little carried away but I really hope it didn't disappoint!   
> Only one more chapter and an epilogue to go, guys. I can't believe we're nearing the end already!! 
> 
> I'll be back tomorrow with chapter 12.  
> Merry Christmas! :) x


	13. On the twelfth day of Christmas...

_On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me..._

 

 

There's food in the oven, lights on the tree and the sound of Wham's 'Last Christmas' floats through Armie's apartment as he throws open a window and leans out; peering down the street expectantly. No sign of Timmy yet...

Armie thinks back to last night. The best night of his fucking life. They had kissed; they had finally fucking kissed and Armie is fairly certain that he hasn't stopped grinning since the moment their lips had met. Kissing Timmy had been like nothing he'd ever imagined and once he'd started, he never wanted to fucking stop. They had fled Tim's exhibition and found refuge in a near by bar where Armie had held his hand, uncaring of the world around them; a world that had slowly faded out until there was only Tim and nothing else. “Come over tomorrow.” he had said as they sat in a secluded booth; his face buried in the crook of Timmy's neck, trailing soft kisses along his collar bone.

“Tomorrow's Christmas day.” Timmy had all but moaned.

“So spend Christmas day with me. Come over.” One more kiss was all it had taken for Timmy to agree and here he was, baking the world's smallest ham and waiting the arrival of his new... what was he? Boyfriend? They hadn't had that conversation yet but after the previous night's events, he was feeling pretty fucking good about it.

He adjusts the temperature on the oven and pours himself a glass of wine. When he checks the time, it's only 11:42am but it's Christmas day and Armie is pretty sure it's the law that you can start drinking at whatever time you damn well please on Jesus' birthday. He snorts at his own ridiculous reasoning and fishes his phone out of the pocket of his jeans to send Timmy a quick text.

 

**< Armie> **Can't wait to see you. X

 

On my way. Can't wait to see you either Xx **< Timmy>**

 

Turns out, Armie doesn't have to wait long at all because no sooner has he tucked his phone securely back into his pocket and downed the last of his wine, than there's a knock at his door. He feels his stomach flip and his heart beat a little faster as he crosses his apartment to let Timmy inside; he has fucking butterflies. _'Christ, I really am a 14 year old girl.'_ he thinks with a smile. A smile that only grows when he throws open the front door to find Timothée fucking Chalamet standing there in the ugliest Christmas sweater he's ever seen. He's holding a bouquet of roses with a small card tucked neatly between the stems. “On the twelfth day of Christmas...” he grins, holding the bouquet out to Armie.

“A dozen fucking roses!” Armie grins, taking the flowers and pulling Timmy in close for a kiss. “Very clever.” he murmurs against Timmy's lips, only pulling back to press more kisses to the underside of his jaw.

“You going to invite me in or are we going to make out in your door way?” Timmy chuckles and Armie twists his mouth into a contemplative smirk, pretending for a brief moment to weigh up both of his options.

“Hm. Well...”

“Armie!” Timmy whines “Come on, it's cold!”

Armie rolls his eyes and steps to one side, granting Timmy entry to his apartment. Timmy smiles when he sees the tree, _their_ tree all lit up and still littered with their poor attempt at decoration. “Smells good in here.” he comments and Armie suddenly feels a little self conscious.

“Lunch is nothing fancy.” Armie blurts as he walks through into the kitchen. “I hope that's okay? Just a ham, mashed potatoes, veggies... few other pieces but, I dunno. I don't cook much anymore so it's probably not that good.” he's rambling and it's like Timmy can sense Armie's sudden surge of anxiety because out of nowhere he's wrapping his arms around Armie's neck and leaning up to kiss him, soft and slow with parted lips; right there in the middle of Armie's tiny kitchen.

Armie grips him by the ass and lifts him with ease, Timmy's legs coming to wrap around Armie's waist and before he knows what's happening Armie is plonking him down onto the kitchen counter and standing between his legs. “I love this.” Timmy hums against Armie's mouth.

“What?” Armie asks, pulling back to tuck a stray curl back behind Tim's ear.

“Everything.” Timmy sighs, happy and content.

“Us you mean?”

Timmy just smirks, the question needing no real answer. They both knew what they were saying. What those unspoken words were, what they meant.

“Do you want wine?” Armie asks, reaching into a cupboard above Timmy's head to retrieve a second glass.

“I want you.” Timmy says and reaches forward to slip a warm hand under Armie's t-shirt.

It takes every ounce of self control and discipline Armie has left in him to plant a soft kiss against Timmy's temple and tell him “Later.”

They're feeling brave today, it would seem. Affording themselves the luxury of being open and honest with one another after two weeks of agonising self-doubt and coy flirtation; they were done tip-toeing around the issue.

 

“So how'd you do it?” Armie eventually asks when they're nestled snuggly beneath a blanket on Armie's couch, bellies full and more than a little tipsy. Timmy lays between Armie's legs, reclined back against the larger man's chest comfortably. They're supposed to be watching the Grinch but between their lust-filled bouts of making out and Timmy's incessant drunken chatter they've not watched much of anything.

“Do what?” Timmy asks, eyes closed and enjoying the feel of Armie threading fingers through his hair.

“The gifts.” Armie says. “One a day, every day?”

Timmy lifts Armie's free hand from where it rests against his stomach and laces their fingers together. He begins to laugh as he recalls the first day he had dropped a gift off for Armie. “Let's just say I owe your landlord twelve favours.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Armie exclaims. “Luca!?” he's in complete awe of the fact that Timmy had managed to convince his landlord to do his dirty work. Timmy just nods, a self-satisfied smirk settling across his face.

“You're kidding?!”

“Nope. He was actually very accommodating.”

“You're devious!” Armie grins and tugs on Timmy's hair lightly; pleasantly surprised when it elicits a soft moan from the boy resting between his thighs. _'Something to re-visit later'_ Armie thinks with a smirk.

“Thank you again.” Timmy says a while later as they continue to spend their afternoon wrapped around one another in front of the Hallmark channel.

“Hm? What for?”

“The book; it's so amazing.”

Armie shrugs and though Timmy can't see it from the position he lays in, he feels the gesture against his back and stretches backward, leaning up to press a soft kiss to Armie's cheek. “Really, I love it.”

“It feels stupid now I know you could afford to buy any first edition you wanted.” Armie sighs.

“Yeah but I don't want _any_ first edition. I want the one _you_ got for me because it's from you and that makes it special.”

Armie feels his heart skip at beat and wonders how one person can be so perfect.

“I get how you can afford an apartment in Yorkville now.” Armie chuckles and as he does, he feels Timmy tense against him.

“Yeah... about that.” Timmy says. “I don't live in Yorkville.”

“What?” Armie's confused, like _really_ fucking confused. “You said-”

“I know what I said. I lied.” Timmy confesses. He's inwardly cringing but now that he and Armie are... whatever they are, Timmy knows this conversation is unavoidable; Armie would find out eventually anyway. “I live like three blocks from the kitchen.”

“I don't get it. Why'd you lie?” Armie asks. “Why'd you keep getting the subway up town with me?”

Timmy's glad he's back to chest with Armie because he's pretty sure he's a deep shade of pink by now. “I just really, really wanted to spend more time with you. I'm sorry. I know it's lame and-” Timmy is saying but he's cut short when Armie quickly rolls them onto their sides and kisses the life out of him. The kiss is long, deep and _'Oh... that's Armie's tongue.'_

“You're _so_ cute!” Armie grins when he finally pulls back to admire Timmy's mouth; pink, wet and kiss-swollen.

Timmy just blushes and mumbles a quiet “Thanks” before burying his face in Armie's chest.

 

It's been a long, difficult year for Armie but as he lay here with Timothée Chalamet wrapped up warm in his arms, it makes the entirety of 2018's trials and tribulations completely worth while. Thanksgiving with his parents, Nick and his fucking gigantic bag of weed; even the $700 fine and his community service ruling. Given the chance, he'd do it all again because for all of the shit he's endured the past year, it's lead him here to Timmy and Armie wouldn't change that for the world.

“Hey.” Timmy says as he lifts his head from Armie's chest.

“Hm?” Armie mumbles, sleepy and subdued, a hand still threading itself through Timmy's hair.

“Which one was your favourite?”

“My favourite what?” Armie asks.

“Which one was your favourite gift?” Timmy says and leans up to plant a soft kiss against Armie's throat, just because he can.

“That's easy.” Armie grins, letting his hand slip from Timmy's scalp and come to rest against the back of his neck instead. “ _You_ , Timmy. You are by _far_ my favourite gift.” he says and pulls the younger man in for another kiss.

“Merry Christmas, Hammer.” Timmy whispers, smiling into their kiss.

“Merry Christmas, Tiny Tim.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is; the final chapter.   
> I know this one is mostly just cheesy dialogue and not much really happens but I figured after two weeks of walking on egg shells around one another, they deserved some domestic bliss!   
> Just the epilogue to go now, I'll be posting that on Monday once I'm back home and settled after Christmas.   
> Once again I'd like to say how fantastic you all are and how much I appreciate your wonderful comments and kudos. Thank you, thank you and thank you again!
> 
> Merry Christmas!  
> xx


	14. Epilogue

“Times Square on New Year's Eve? Really, Tim?” Armie says with a groan. Timmy just shrugs from his seat at Armie's kitchen counter and takes another bite of his sandwich.

“It'll be fun.” He says but Armie isn't entirely convinced. They could hit any club in Manhattan tonight and they'd all be the same experience as Time's Square on New Year's Eve; the crowds, the shoving, the overpriced drinks and always, _always_ someone trying to grab his ass in the crowd. When Armie voices his opinion Timmy grins around a mouthful of food and then swallows.

“Well, yeah but it'll be me grabbing your ass this year.” He smirks.

“Can't we just stay here and I'll let you do that anyway?” Armie pleads. He's wrapping his arms around Timmy's waist from behind, resting his chin on the shorter man's shoulder and praying to god that his puppy eyes work on Tim the same way Timmy's do on him; apparently they don't.

“Nope. I want to go out.” Timmy spins in his seat to face Armie and presses a soft kiss to his mouth. “Please?”

Armie sighs reluctantly. “You taste like mustard.” he says, kissing Timmy one more time and then unwrapping himself from around the younger man. “I'm going to go shower.”

“Is that a yes?” Timmy calls out as Armie heads into the bathroom.

“Did you hear a no?”

Christ, this kid has him wrapped around his little finger already. _'How have I fallen so hard so fucking fast?'_ Armie thinks as he strips and steps into the shower. He's left the bathroom door open and as he soaps himself up under the warm spray of water, he silently hopes that Timmy will join him.

 

By 6:00PM they're _both_ freshly showered and already amongst the sea of people flooded into Times Square. Timmy has his back pressed flush against Armie's front and Armie can't help but wrap a protective arm around Tim's waist. They're bundled up warm and it's exactly as Armie had predicted; loud, busy and expensive. _'At least it's not snowing...'_ he thinks as they shuffle forward, deeper into the crowd. There's music playing; it vibrates around them, a song Armie can't quite place. Cardi B or Nicki Minaj maybe? Armie had never been great at differentiating between the two but Timmy knows because he's mouthing along as they go, bopping his head and turning every so often to smile up at Armie and ask if he's okay.

That's something else Armie has learned about Timmy in the 6 short days that they've been dating; the boy is a worrier. Tim doesn't really worry about himself so much as he does other people. His family, his friends and now Armie; it's fucking adorable if Armie is completely honest and just one more thing that makes him lo- _like_ Tim as much as he does.

“Is this okay?” Timmy shouts over the music when they find a clearing in the crowd. He's leaning in just enough for Armie to hear and the smell of Timmy's cologne is fucking intoxicating. Armie just smiles, nods and holds Timmy a little closer while he tries to ignore the incessant shoving from those around him.

It's fucking cold out tonight and even wrapped up in his new scarf and gloves; courtesy of his now not-so-secret admirer, Armie can feel the chill settling in his bones. Robin Thicke has just left the stage and Armie groans inwardly when he realises that that was only the first performance of the evening; he sets his jaw in an ill attempt to stop his teeth from chattering and pulls Timmy tight against his chest for added warmth.

 

By 7:00PM even the swarm of lively, heated bodies surrounding them do nothing to keep Armie from shivering and when Timmy asks him for the hundredth time if he's alright, Armie isn't entirely sure the stiffness in his neck will even let him nod. So, he smiles instead and yells an unconvincing “I'm good.” over the music blaring from a nearby speaker.

“Liar!” Timmy yells back in return and rolls his eyes. “Are you cold?”

Armie just shrugs. He doesn't want to be _that guy_ ; the boring, stuffy older boyfriend who never wants to go out or do anything fun. He wont have Timmy be bored of him already; he'll lie his ass off and die of hypothermia if he has to but he vows to never bore Timmy if he can help it.

“No. Really, I'm good!” He says but Timmy just doesn't buy it. Armie has never really been a good liar; even as a child his mother had always known when he was guilty of something. No need for questions, Armie's face always spoke volumes.

Before Armie really knows what's happening Timmy has a slender hand wrapped around his wrist and is pulling him along, back out toward the rear of the crowd. When they pass through the barriers and reach the pavement Timmy wastes no time in pulling Armie close; arms coil tightly around his waist while a mop of brown curls rest against his chest. “I'm sorry.” Timmy mumbles into the soft fabric of Armie's coat.

“What?” Armie huffs out a quiet, awkward laugh. “what for? I'm fine. Really.”

“No, you're not. You're cold and it's loud and kind of claustrophobic. This isn't your thing and-”

“You didn't force me to come.” Armie insists as he slips a comforting arm around Timmy's shoulders and presses a kiss to his hair.

“Yes I did. You said you wanted to stay home and I-”

“Timmy, stop. I'd spend tonight anywhere you wanted if it meant I got to kiss you at midnight.” Armie can feel his cheeks tinge pink at the confession and while he _might_ be able to blame his blush on the cold, they both know he'd be fooling nobody. Timmy's beaming up at him now, his arms still wrapped around his lover's waist.

“Anywhere?” Timmy asks, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Anywhere.” Armie nods confidently.

 

And so by 11:59PM on December 31st 2018, Armie Hammer and Timothée Chalamet find themselves in Timmy's apartment, in Timmy's bedroom, in Timmy's bed. No clothes, no secrets, no regrets. The only sound to fill the room is that of their laboured breathing and the 2018 Ball Drop playing out on the tv in the corner.

As they count down to midnight, Armie pulls Timmy in close against his chest and brushes his nose against the younger man's. Timmy smiles, sleepy and content.

“Ten.” Armie whispers, his lips ghosting over Tim's.

“Hey, Armie?” Timmy says

“Nine.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Eight.” Armie continues. He doesn't answer; not verbally anyway but the inquisitive smile he gives Timmy prompts the other man to continue.

“It's kind of weird.” Timmy is smiling now and Armie begins to wonder what the fuck he's up to.

“Seven.”

“So you're not allowed to laugh.”

“Six.”

“Okay?”

“Five.” Armie just nods, eyes still fixed on Timmy's as their lips hover closer.

“Well, I was wondering...”

“Four.”

“Would you maybe...”

“Three.”

“Consider...”

“Two.”

“Wearing the hairnet in bed?” Timmy grins.

“One.” and that's it. Armie is surging forward, their mouths connecting in a fierce, hungry kiss that has Timmy making noises he never even knew he was capable of. “Happy new year.” Armie sighs when they finally come up for air and Timmy doesn't think he's ever heard Armie sound more content.

“Happy new year.” Timmy smiles and nuzzles his face into the crook of Armie's neck, bringing a hand up from under the sheets to thread his fingers through the older man's hair. “So...” Timmy starts.

“So?”

“About that hairnet...”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is... the epilogue and the final chapter.  
> I was supposed to have this epilogue posted last Monday, on the actual 31st but unfortunately I ran into some technical issues with my laptop so I'd like to apologise for the delay and also thank you all so, so much for sticking with this fic the way you have over Christmas. You've all been so wonderful and kind in the comments and I really can't say enough just what a pleasure this fic was to write because of you all.  
> Thank you, thank you and thank you again.  
> x

**Author's Note:**

> So with only 4 weeks until Christmas I really wanted to get the prologue for this particular fic posted as soon as possible. My intention is to post the first official chapter 12 days before Christmas and then one every day leading up to the 25th. 
> 
> Enjoy!


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